


Thieves of London

by Yalu



Series: The Wheels of London [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed: Syndicate - Fandom
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Breaking and Entering, Canon Trans Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Evie Frye (offscreen) - Freeform, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gender Dysphoria, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, Heists, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Angst, Occasional hurt/comfort, Post-Canon, Safe-Cracking, Trans Male Character, Trans acceptance, cheerful murder, lockpicking, trans reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 66,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21927166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yalu/pseuds/Yalu
Summary: Ned and Jacob race trains, steal evidence, crack safes, succeed outrageously, fail hard, are supportive, have meltdowns and, somewhere along the way, fall for each other.
Relationships: Jacob Frye & Clara O'Dea, Jacob Frye & Ned Wynert, Jacob Frye/Ned Wynert, Ned Wynert & Clara O'Dea, Ned Wynert & Original Character
Series: The Wheels of London [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831084
Comments: 72
Kudos: 76





	1. Many Happy Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Jacob's birthday, and he's gathering his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my NaNo project (which I failed, but it got me 20k of good raw material). Since I replayed the game earlier this year ideas keep swirling round my head when I'm trying to sleep, so clearly something had to be done. Jacob and Ned are so much fun together and I frankly find them adorable, but also, so much room for misunderstanding conflict and angst. A trans man and a bi cis man running around stealing things and falling in love in Victorian London? My catnip.
> 
> I'm incapable of not getting sidetracked by details and research so here's some semi-important notes on things that might be confusing in this chapter.
> 
>  **Ned and favours:** In sequence 5 Research & Development there's some Ned–Jacob dialogue that you only hear if Jacob drives the police carraige away in a chase; [listen to it here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FDtgo2t9uO0&list=PLHUyVyXD266hSbMns_QUxHuahDFZxGPD5&index=11&t=0s). The relevant part is where Ned says: "I operate on a strict policy of keeping people indebted to me, not the other way around. I hate having to return favours!"
> 
>  **Money:** The game seriously messed with my concept of how much things cost in Victorian London and I've got no idea what are reasonable numbers for anything anymore, but given that the _annual_ pay for a domestic cook seems to [max at about fifty pounds](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Women_in_the_Victorian_era#%22The_Household_General%22), and cost of groceries was [measured in shillings or pence](http://www.victorianweb.org/economics/wages4.html), I'd say the £2000 payout for every train or boat heist in-game is exaggerated to say the least. Even if it's all supposed to be from the value of the goods stolen.  
> I'm changing it here so that Ned pays the Fryes a fee for bringing him goods instead, but even then they're still playing with amounts of money way above what the average person would make. If I get a better grasp of money later I may come back and edit the numbers.

_Dear Jacob,_

_Our voyage to India feels like it has taken far more than a few weeks, yet I have seen so much already; sailing across the Channel felt like leaping from St. Paul's for the first time, and I feel like I am still in the air as I take in all the sights across the Mediterranean, far too many to fathom in the brief time we passed them by, and I am very excited to see what lies ahead. Tonight we are resting in Cairo and will soon take a train to Suez, and then on to the Punjab._

_I have never been so hot; the air is so dry I feel it pulls the water from my very skin. Henry assures me that though the heat in India can be dry like this, in other seasons it will be humid and the warm rainstorms can be so heavy as to make London's regular deluge look like a light drizzle. I am drinking twice as much water as normal and am still always thirsty; I wonder how the Indian Assassins ever manage to run and scale buildings without stopping to rest all the time. I suppose I shall learn._

_How is London? I regret that we left before helping George to settle in, but as you quite rightly observed, the Council are so cautious in their decisions that Henry and I may have been old and grey before he even arrived, and Henry has been so eager to see his mother again. I have finally finished my summation of our search for the Shroud, and George should have it by the time you pick up this letter; please tell him I said you are welcome to read it and add any details I might have missed. I trust that between that, your account of events, and George's reports on the city's stability, the Council will move headquarters in from Crawley within the next decade. Two at the most._

_None of your letters have caught up with us yet, but I am sure correspondence will be easier once Henry and I have a single address and there is less risk of letters going astray. I will keep addressing mine to George at the curio shop._

_I forgot to tell you before I left: Mr Callingham is about to retire and you will need to speak with him before Christmas to find a suitable replacement for keeping our hand in the tea market. His son is a poor choice as he has no head for subtlety when it comes to paying and adjusting his books for our protection fees, but his daughter-in-law Edith is quite competent if you and Mr Callingham agree that it is best to keep it within their family._

_There is something else I wish I had said before leaving, and I am sorry I was not able to find the words at the time: I was deeply touched by your speech at my wedding. Not the part about being impossible to please, but all the rest. I love you, little brother, and I miss you terribly already. Your company has been a constant for so long, even when we were fighting, and it feels very strange to be without you. I'm sure it will get easier over time, but for every step I take towards India, I am aware it is a step away from you, and I am always a little sad._

_I trust you are not nearly so melancholy and that you are happy in the company of our friends in London._

_Also, despite your prediction, I have not once been seasick. You owe me £20._

_Yours,  
Evie_

Ned's office in Southwark was on the top floor of his warehouse, an old, sturdy building between Waterloo station and the docks. It wasn't cheap real estate, but the quick access was worth it, especially when sensitive goods needed to be shifted to the warehouse as fast as possible.

Of course, if that cargo was being liberated by Jacob Frye, it would as often as not come in through Ned's office window. The man was quiet as a damn mouse when he wanted to be, and Ned, running numbers twice in his head before putting ink to paper, jumped near out of his skin when a stack of three narrow metal cases was dropped suddenly onto his desk.

"Damnit, Frye! Why can't you use the door?"

Jacob grinned. "Where's the fun in that?" He flopped into a chair, leaned back and stretched his legs to prop up his boots on the desk.

"If you get mud on my papers you're not getting another job for a month."

"Ah, Wynert, we both know I don't need your money anymore." He laced his hands behind his head. "Train robberies are just too much fun to pass up."

"It's business, Frye," said Ned, but now that his heart had stopped pounding the ire wasn't in it, and he looked at the loot eagerly. The cases were shiny, and opened with a satisfying click – Jacob's lockpicking was decent, he'd give him that much, the locks were never broken or jammed, but he scratched the casings badly.

Inside the first two were stacks of deeds and cash, and in the last– well, Ned may have grown his business well beyond pawning jewellery, but there was nothing quite like the sparkle of an emerald necklace that would never reach some old duke's mistress. Unless Ned sold it to them himself, that is.

He lifted the necklace out to admire its glint in the sunlight. "Beautiful," he sighed. "Look at that craftsmanship. You don't see that every day."

"You certainly don't," said Jacob, looking at Ned with a twinkle in his eye. "Seems a shame to sell it. Someone should wear it first. Someone who appreciates it."

"It doesn't match your outfit," Ned replied, standing. "Excuse me a moment."

Jacob airily waved him off and starting fiddling with something on that gauntlet of his.

Ned had picked an office in an upper corner of his warehouse so that everyone who came to see him had to go through his assistant's office first – almost everyone, anyway. So far, thank God, the man hadn't dropped in while Ned was in a meeting with sensitive clients.

He stepped out the door into his assistant's office and offered her the necklace. "Sparkles from the one o'clock train are here. Do you think you can fence it as is, or do we break it down?"

Rose took the necklace with a puzzled frown. "When did these arrive?"

"Mr Frye is incapable of using doors," said Ned, and Rose laughed. She looked the jewels over with a practiced eye and shook her head.

"Too recognisable. I'll take it to Dilleston this evening. The usual discounts?"

Ned nodded. Dilleston was a jeweller in the Strand who was more than happy to disassemble stolen jewellery for them if he could buy some of the stones cheap. "Ten percent off for up to ten stones except the centrepiece – five percent for that." Rose's revolver would ensure he didn't sneak away any extras, though so far she'd never needed to show it.

Rose wrapped the necklace in a dull handkerchief and tucked it under the collar of her dress, better for inconspicuous transport. "And will Mr Frye be staying for tea?" she asked primly.

Ned rolled his eyes and turned away as Rose giggled to herself.

Jacob was, surprisingly, still in his chair, looking around with a slightly unfocused stare. "Why do you have three safes?"

Ned shut the door and followed his gaze to the large Rosengrens safe obscured in a corner behind a curtain, to the small fireproof one on a back table behind some books, and only then to the Chubb that was in plain view behind his desk. Good eye.

"I have four," said Ned, which wasn't true: he had eight, though not in this room. He had a new double-cased steel safe waiting at home, direct from Chatwood & Parkin, and he couldn't wait to try cracking it. They'd added at least four false notches this time, and claimed to have filled all the pry-lines so thieves couldn't get in to work. Ned had a bet with himself that he could figure it out in a week. "I've got four whole pounds to my name, Frye. Got to keep them safe."

The stacks of notes from the train cases were still on his desk, untouched – Jacob had passed that test the very first time he'd delivered cargo, but it was good to check now and then. He picked up one stack to check the denominations, then started counting. "Your usual fee, with a bonus," he promised.

Jacob's big hand covered both of his and lowered them down to the desk. "Not this time," he said.

Ned stamped hard on the little shoot of fear that always tensed him up when someone got too close; Jacob was a tease, not a threat – he even had that annoying cheeky look on his face again. Ned narrowed his eyes, "What do you want, Frye?"

He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "A _favour_." Before Ned could roll his eyes and reiterate, again, his policy on favours, Jacob said, "Come to the Horse & Groom tomorrow night. First drinks are on me."

Ned folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "You want to waive a _two hundred pound_ fee for a night out drinking. Sure, I believe you."

"Oh come on, it'll be fun! Agnes will be there, you know her. My Rooks of course, and Bobby Topping. Freddy might even pop in."

So he wasn't joking. Hmm. "That's quite a crowd," Ned stalled. "And a classy pub. Sure you won't wreck the place?"

Jacob theatrically clapped a hand to his chest and looked affronted. "I can be classy! I'll have you know I'm a _knight_!"

Ned snorted. "Someday you're going to tell me how you, of all people, got knighted. But come on, Frye, that's a big gathering. What's the occasion?"

On the desk top, Jacob's fingers drummed for a moment, and Ned felt – wasn't sure, but would have put money on it – that the next thing out of his mouth would be either an outrageous lie or the plain truth.

Jacob glanced down, and up, then shrugged. "It's my birthday. Thought we could make a night out of it. Something better than last year, anyway."

This time last year Ned had only been getting to know the Frye twins, so he hadn't been invited to whatever celebration they'd had. If any, come to think of it, given how thick on the ground the Blighters were and how much the two of them were fighting; no one had been able to miss that. And this year–

Oh. This year Evie was in India, and likely would be for many birthdays to come. Ned didn't dwell on his family often, but on birthdays, like Christmas... well, he understood.

Didn't mean he wasn't going to make Jacob work for it. He leaned back in his chair and "hmmmm"d for a moment. "I don't know, a whole evening in a pub with your gang? And Bobby? And a _policeman_? You're asking a lot, Frye. I'm not interested in getting arrested."

"I'd break you out again," Jacob promised easily. "And the boys will behave. Maggie – she's my leader in the south boroughs, you've met her? No? – Maggie arranges the guard shifts for our businesses in Lambeth, and any Rooks who make trouble tonight know they'll be stuck in the smelliest marshes with the most biting insects."

Ned snorted. "You've got a funny way of running a gang, you know. It's almost military."

"My father would be delighted to hear that," Jacob said dryly. "Will you come?"

Ned pretended to think it over a bit longer, then nodded and gathered up the cash – and continued counting. "Sure will, but as this isn't business, you'll still take your fee," he said, handing over the cash. "Use it to buy us those drinks. I'll come – as a favour to you."

Jacob laughed and stood up, taking the money. It disappeared into one of his many pockets. "So I still owe you. Quite a policy you have there, Wynert. No exceptions, even for your friends?"

Something warm swirled in Ned's chest, but he kept his sceptical face on. "We're friends?"

Jacob laughed again as he whirled away, hopping up onto the window ledge. "Course we are, you wanker. Why do you think I keep robbing trains for you?"

And then he was gone. Dramatic bastard.

Ned smiled and went back to his books.

The Horse & Groom was all red carpets, padded green benches and stained glass, a piano tinkling merrily in the corner, and usually a few gentlemen focused intently on the chess table. It was not prepared for the explosion of revelry that was Jacob Frye's birthday.

Jacob swept in with a dozen Rooks, put ten pounds on the bar and declared, "Drinks all round now, and then whatever my friends want until it runs out!" He grinned. "And there's always more."

The barman swept up the cash and warily began filling pints. Soon as the first was set down, Nigel lunged for it, but Agnes smacked him upside the head. "Wait yer turn."

"Aw, Agnes, let 'im have it," said Davey, one of Jacob's gang leaders. The other, Maggie, was giving the lads a talking-to about not breaking anything or getting the coppas called in to ruin Mr Frye's birthday. The barman looked relieved. Nigel looked longingly at the pint.

"It's no' his day," Agnes replied, sweeping up the pint and handing it to Jacob. "To yer health."

Jacob raised it. "To the Rooks!"

The roaring cheer that followed was the last the Horse & Groom knew of genteel dignity for the rest of the night.

Jacob was quite happily tipsy by the time Ned arrived. He must have snuck in, the little bastard, because the first Jacob saw of him he was sitting quietly in a booth by himself, sipping a pint. "Ned!" he cried, elbowing his way over. "You sly devil, what are you doing here?"

Ned looked amused. "You invited me, Frye."

"No, _here_. The fun's over there!" He flicked a hand vaguely at the bar, where Maggie and Dave were on their third round of arm-wrestling, with three pints each wagered on the win.

"I'm good," said Ned. "Your boys are a bit rowdy for my taste."

Jacob frowned and dropped onto the bench beside him. "What do you usually do all night, then? Play chess?"

Ned snorted. "Hell no." He took a swallow of his beer and grimaced. "I'm usually at home. Never cared much for pubs."

Jacob had to stop and blink a moment to process that. "Wynert, you're the strangest man I've ever met."

Ned raised his pint in a mocking toast. "So are you."

Jacob laughed, slapped the table and shuffled out of the booth. "Come on, I'll introduce you," he said, and Ned followed him slowly. "This is Nigel," he said, grabbing the lad in a headlock and ruffling his hair, just because it annoyed him. "That's Stephen and Jimmy, Bob, Liza–"

At that moment Maggie's arm gave out and Dave slammed her wrist down onto the table, square between two pints that shook and started to topple from the jolt. Rooks rushed to save them, and all was chaos for a minute until the emergency was confirmed averted. Jacob gave up on pointing to faces and said loudly, "Everyone, this is Ned!"

They cheered. They'd cheer anything at this point, each of them at least as many pints in as Jacob, but Ned looked pleased, and that made Jacob happy.

"Hello, Mr Wynert!" said Agnes, beaming as she bulled her way through the sea of green jackets. "Lovely ta see you. Jacob finally convinced you ta join us, I take it?"

"I thought a night out once in a while would be nice," said Ned. "How are things with you, Miss MacBean? How's Bertha?"

"Oh she's bonny. Did Jacob tell you we've added two new cars? A proper sleeping car with private compartments and a dining car with a good stove and basin. My breakfasts havenae been so fine in years! I think we could make a whole Christmas dinner with all the trimmings in there."

"Just what the old girl deserves," said Ned warmly. "I'd love to see it sometime."

"Yer always welcome, Mr Wynert."

Ned beamed. "And how's your sister? Those curtains she made for me were some fine work. Never had a chill since."

Agnes beamed. "She'll be delighted to hear it! Jenny works awfully hard and it makes her so happy to know it's doing some good. If you'd no mind spreading the word a bit? It'd be a great help to her wee business."

"Not at all, I'd be happy to."

Satisfied, Jacob tuned them out and leaned over the table as Maggie and Dave set up round four of their match. Dave was wobbling from downing six pints at once, and wagers were on that he'd drop or retch before this round ended. Jacob had seen the man win enough drinking competitions to doubt that, but what he did know was that whoever drank the eight pints after this round was sure to lose it all afterwards one way or another.

Bobby was flitting around and grinning fit to burst as he collected the bets. "Delightful little show you've got here," he said as he took Jacob's money. "I don't suppose you'd care to compete yourself? You're quite a large man, I'm sure you can win four rounds yourself, or maybe five...?"

...It was tempting. _So_ tempting. A year ago Jacob wouldn't have thought twice, but passing out like he had last time would make for a short and miserable birthday, and that's what he would say if anyone asked, but... Both Maggie and Dave were well on their way to useless, and if the few remaining Blighters got it into their heads to burn down another Rook-owned business tonight, the only one of his gang leaders who could do anything about it was Bill, who was keeping an ear out from the train, and Bill was more slow and cautious than Evie.

So he shrugged as if it was nothing and said, "Ah, it's more fun this way. Is it too late for a bob on Maggie?"

A _thud_ and a cheer answered that question and Maggie leapt to her feet, fists swinging victoriously. "Take _that_ , ya pansy!" she roared, and Bobby hurried off to calculate the payouts.

Jacob leaned back on the bar and enjoyed the chaos of his friends having a good time. There weren't many other patrons of the pub left, mostly a few stalwart gentlemen who were scowling and refusing to yield their space, and Jacob had just decided it would be excellent fun to talk them into taking on Maggie for the next round when he spotted one slightly less stalwart gentleman with a yellow overcoat and some very familiar muttonchops.

"FREDDY!" he cried and, oh, maybe he was a few more pints in than he thought, that was loud even to his ears. From his discreet spot just inside the door, blending in with the other patrons, Freddy cringed.

Jacob ambled over and slung an arm round his shoulders. "You came! Lads, look who's here!"

Teeth gritted, Freddy growled, "I'm in _disguise_!"

"And a fine one it is too," said Jacob, tugging at his lapel and dragging him towards the crowd. "Dressing up fancy for once? Was your old lady look too much for us? Street sweeper togs worn out?"

Freddy, looking pained, sighed. Jacob clapped his shoulder. "Pint's on me. Two pints!" he called to the barman. "Two for my friend, he's got a lot of catching up to do!"

Maggie, swaying, stumbled into them, looking ill. Jacob caught her and steadied into a seat at the next table. "You did good, Mags. Have a rest now."

She mumbled something and dropped her head onto the wood.

Jacob pulled out the other seat and offered it to Freddy. "I was starting to think you weren't coming."

Freddy sat down gingerly and accepted one pint, careful not to bump Maggie's head. "I can't stay long. As far as my superior is concerned I'm following up a lead that will unfortunately come to nothing."

"And you had to find the perfect suit for this pub."

A small smile and the tiniest salute with his tankard was the only answer Freddy gave. Then he raised it higher in a toast. "To your health on your birthday, Jacob. Many happy returns!"

"Cheers!" Jacob clanked his tankard against Freddy's and took a big swig.

"How is Miss Evie? I understand she'll reach India before December."

Jacob took another swig. "Sounds about right. She's fine. Happiest bride you've ever seen."

"I'm sorry I couldn't come to the wedding. Appearances, you know."

Jacob waved it off. "What happened to that last haul I brought you – Higgs? Any trouble?"

Freddy frowned, peering at him. Jacob kept his face arranged in a guileless look of curiosity, as if he ever asked about bounties after delivering them and getting his pay. Freddy hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged and said, "He's off to trial, but the evidence found on him and at his home is more than enough for a conviction. The only complicating factor is the officer who died on the street as he was being abducted."

Oh. That. Jacob scratched his neck. "Wasn't me. Two of his Blighters got into a row and the coppa ran in to break it up. He wasn't supposed to be there."

Freddy looked sceptical, and given how often Blighters conveniently got into a row just as Jacob needed a distraction, he wasn't wrong, but officially he knew nothing about Aleck's darts and Jacob really hadn't meant to get the officer killed; he must have been just out of range when he'd scouted the area. Jacob had thought it was just Blighters fighting until word came a few hours later. "Did he have family?"

"A widowed sister. We've all been chipping in to help with her rent until she can find cheaper lodgings."

Jacob pulled the rest of Ned's money from his inner pocket – fifty pounds at least – and pushed it into his hands. Freddy fumbled, startled, then blinked at it a moment before carefully tucking it away. He looked up at Jacob, regarding him with a curious, warm sort of approval that made Jacob's shoulders hunch irritably. "Anonymous donation?" he asked lightly.

"Drink your pint, Freddy."

Freddy didn't stay long – too much to do and too much chance of being seen – and the others did breathe easier after he left. Ned and Agnes were deep in conversation about train engines at a far booth, with only three pints between them in the last hour, but they seemed happy and Jacob was having too grand a time to try figuring them out.

He was two rounds into his best whist game all year when a small hand tugged on his sleeve: one of the little Rooks was holding out a paper. "For you, Chief. Mr Aleck brought it by the train earlier and Mr Bill said to bring it to you right quick."

Jacob flipped a few coins his way as thanks and unfolded the paper. It was a telegram, sent to Aleck – the only person they knew with his own line. Clever.

_A, please pass to J.  
J, have sent 3 letters. No response. Hope they have not been lost.  
I miss you. Happy birthday.  
E._

A heavy feeling settled into his stomach. He flipped the paper closed and slipped it into his pocket, and over Liza's shoulder he caught a glimpse of Ned looking his way. Jacob put on a smile and waved him over, but Ned shook his head.

"Is that from Miss Evie?" asked Liza, sharp-eyed as ever. "Right shame she's not here. Don't suppose she's coming back?"

The others were looking up from the game too, cheerful curiosity on most of their faces. Jacob shook his head. "Evie hasn't even reached India yet. She says hello to everyone and trusts you're all buying me drinks tonight."

The Rooks cheered and jeered and laughed, and turned back to the game. Nigel, swaying on his feet, lifted his pint high. "To Miss Evie!" he cried.

"Miss Evie!" they echoed, and Jacob took a deep swig with them.

"Prettiest bride in London!" Nigel rambled on, slurring. "In the _world_!"

The Rooks chuckled at him. "Still hopin' she'll come back for you, ay?" asked Jimmy.

Nigel turned beat red. "Am not!" The others laughed again and Nigel wound up for a punch. "You take that back!"

Jacob yanked him down by his collar and back into his seat. "My _sister_ ," he said loudly, "isn't coming back."

Chastened, Nigel settled, and the others picked up their cards and drinks. "Your turn, Boss," said Bob.

Jacob lost spectacularly half an hour later, and he made a show of gracefully resigning and escaped to sit with Ned and Agnes. Ned shuffled over to make room. "Good game?" asked Agnes.

"Fantastic." He drained his pint and looked around; still only three empty pints on the table. "Is that all you've had? Christ, Wynert."

"If yer wantin' another one, Jacob, ye only need say so," chided Agnes. She stood up. "As it happens I could use another meself. Mr Wynert?"

"Sure, thanks."

Jacob sank into the seat and rested his head against the nice cool wall as Agnes fought her way slowly to the crowded bar. Ned elbowed him. "Great company you are," he teased. "Enjoying your birthday?"

"Best day of the year," he replied, eyes closed. "When's yours anyway? We should make a night of it too."

"Last month, but I don't celebrate it."

For a minute it was quiet save for the rustling of paper, and Jacob thought nothing of it until he felt the slightest bit of movement in his pocket. He looked down to see Ned's empty hand slipping away. "Did you just pick my pocket?" he asked incredulously, sitting up and checking; Evie's telegram was still inside. Ned looked unfazed.

"Putting it back, actually. I picked it when you sat down." He leaned on one elbow and looked up. "You had a funny look when you were reading it. I was curious."

"Mind your own bloody business," Jacob scowled. He started to get up, to go back to his Rooks, but Ned's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Hey, Frye, you're right: Not my business. I'm sorry." He tugged lightly on Jacob's arm. "I didn't mean to poke at a sore spot."

"Nothing to poke," Jacob grumbled, but he sat down again. "She's gone off to India with Greenie and she's happy. We've said our goodbyes."

Ned nodded. "It's a shame none of your letters got through," he said lightly, and Jacob's fuzzy head took just a little too long to think of an answer to that: Ned's eyes narrowed. "You haven't written back."

"What was that about none of your business?" snapped Jacob.

Ned held up his hands in surrender. "You're right, I'm prying. Sorry. I thought you must must miss her, that's all."

Jacob scowled. "Of course I do! Don't you miss your family?"

"No. Nothing to miss."

And that– that got Jacob's attention. He blinked and looked at the man he'd decided to call a friend and realised he'd never thought twice about it. Or even once. "I assumed they were all still in America."

"Oh, they are." Ned fiddled with his empty pint, looking at a spot on the table. "We're not in touch. Had a falling out years ago."

"I'm sorry," Jacob said, sincerely.

Ned waved it off. "It's fine. But speaking as someone who's an ocean away from his family, can I say something?"

Jacob shrugged and picked up the nearest tankard– oh, right, it was empty and waiting for Agnes. "What?"

"I'd give a lot to get a letter. Even a telegram – anything that's a bit of home. There's nothing more lonely than being alone in a new country."

"She's got Greenie," Jacob said. "And what could I even say? It's raining, like always? Do you miss London yet?"

"I don't think it matters what you say. It's hearing from them that means something."

Jacob turned that idea over in his head a few times, still staring down into the tankard, and Ned went back to looking away and fiddling uncomfortably until Agnes returned with three dripping pints.

She shuffled back into her seat. "Sorry for the wait, ye should see the mess Nigel's made this time. Here ye are."

Jacob accepted his with a nod and sipped, looking at Agnes curiously. Beside him, Ned took a long pull of beer. "Do you have family, Agnes?"

She looked surprised and then broke into a smile. "Oh aye, five brothers and sisters and me mum. All 'o them but Jenny are still in Garnkirk. I write to them all the time. My brother Brian just had twin boys!"

Jacob smiled for her and asked about them, and Agnes gushed for a while, then interrogated him fiercely about the stories she'd heard of twins knowing each other's thoughts (sometimes it seemed so, but he couldn't say for sure), feeling pain when the other was hurt (only after laying eyes on Evie that time she'd broken her leg falling from a chimney), if there was always one well-behaved twin and one troublemaker (you'd think so, but no, Evie could make trouble too) and if they were always each other's best friend (definitely not).

Somehow this turned into Jacob telling a long story about their fourteenth birthday, when Father had been on a mission and they'd been sent to stay with Granny back in Gelli. The local steelworks manager, Mr Price, had been underpaying his staff and claiming that his workers were liars who had gambled it away, all the while playing poker with his rich friends every week. With Granny's blessing (partly as a birthday gift and, in retrospect, probably as a bit of training of her own), they'd decided to rob him to drive him out of town.

It was hardly the best job they'd done, but even with Evie slipping off the roof and Jacob sneezing at exactly the wrong time to sneak into Price's study unnoticed, they pulled it off. With no smoke bombs, they'd had to cajole their friends into making a loud distraction outside, so Gelli had been treated to a stampede of 'escaped' goats charging down the main street and 'accidentally' being herded together in just the right spot to chew up Mrs Price's beloved rose garden.

By the time Jacob was describing, in detail, how Mrs Price's hems had been nibbled up in noble defence of her flora, how loudly she had screamed her outrage, and how Mr Price had been bitten in the arse by a grumpy billy while trying to rescue her, all the Rooks still sober enough to stand had gathered round and were laughing at all the right times, and Jacob's mood had bounced back.

"And _then_ , when he finally gets back inside, he goes to his study. Me and Evie are already out the window, and we can see the moment he realises his lockbox is open. He _flies_ at it, you know, runs right across the room in a panic, _knows_ it's his end if he can't pay off his debts. But – it's not empty."

He grinned as his audience leaned in, hanging on his words. Ned was watching so intently his eyes felt like they were drilling right through his head. Or maybe that was the ale. That fourth pint was a knocker.

"C'mon, what'd you leave in it, Boss?" pressed Nigel.

Jacob grinned wider, swaying slightly in his chair. "One pound, one shilling, and the joker from his own deck of cards."

The Rooks roared with laughter, some of them spilling their drinks or slumping in their chairs, too tired and too strung up with glee to notice. Ned looked thoughtful – probably the only one still sober enough to do so. Jacob's head was fuzzy again. He needed another pint.

It was after midnight now, and the Horse & Groom was livening up with more of the heavy drinking regulars rolling in and out and into each other, usually with sloppy happy greetings, but so far only one small brawl. Jacob was disappointed. On the other hand, it meant he could drink more than he spilled.

Ned appeared at his elbow when he leaned on the bar for more beer, still eyeing him intently. "Who taught you two how to pick locks?"

Jacob blinked at him, wishing the fuzziness in his head wasn't quite so... fuzzy. He shook his head. "Father. And Gran– Um. Father."

"Your _grandmother_ taught you to pick locks."

"She was a very good Assaaaaaa– Lockpick. er."

Ned looked sceptical, but he nodded and signalled for another pint of his own. On his other side, Davey stumbled up to the bar to do the same, and Ned shuffled over to make room but got squashed tight between them, until all Jacob could see was the top of his boring black hat. He reached over it and shoved Davey, who swung round looking outraged until he saw who'd pushed him. "Sorry, Boss!"

Ned straightened his coat and nodded his thanks. "Well, she did a good job. Picking the lock on a rusty old box like that isn't easy, especially in a hurry."

Jacob beamed. He waved wildly to get the barman's attention (turned out he was just a step or two away) and pointed both hands at Ned's pint. "On me!"

Ned chuckled. "Everything's on you tonight," he said. Jacob shrugged elaborately, splashing Nigel with his beer by accident as he followed Ned to a corner table.

A thought struck him as they sat and he leaned over, peering closely at Ned. "You have four safes."

Ned rolled his eyes, but his mouth was twitching like there was something very funny happening – Jacob wasn't sure what – and he took a sip to cover it. "Yes, I told you that."

"Why?"

Ned swallowed his beer. "I thought you'd have guessed that already. Practice."

Practicing safes? Practicing _with_ sa–? Oh. "You're a _thief_!" he cried, delighted, and quick as a flash Ned yanked him down by the collar.

"Jesus, Frye, say it a little louder would you!" he hissed. Jacob brushed it off; it was so noisy now he could barely hear himself, and they were sitting by a wall. "You know what my business is, why are you surprised?" asked Ned.

"Hijacking boats 'sn't the same as breaking into fancy safes," said Jacob. Oh right, Ned was worried someone would hear them. He squeezed in closer and leaned down till he could feel Ned's warm breath on his nose. He grinned. "You've been holding out on me. What else're you hiding?"

"Nothing much," said Ned. He rocked back a little bit, glancing around, and when he was satisfied no one could hear them he leaned in too. "And you're right. Safes and locks are my speciality. I made my way here on donations from the rich ladies of New York."

"Jewel thief!" Jacob declared, nodding. "Excellent."

"Well, I don't get to do it much anymore," said Ned. "Got a business to run. But I like to keep my skills sharp; you never know when a big job will pop up with a lock no one else can handle. Unless they use gunpowder," he added, wrinkling his nose. "That's barbaric. Brute force can open anything eventually, there's no art to that. But if I crack a safe? No one knows until they open it again. That's half the trick, you know; botch a job and they'll see the scratches and check right away, but if it looks normal? Man, the things I've gotten away with..."

Jacob nodded along, not really hearing it all so much as he was watching Ned's face, the enthusiasm in his every gesture. He was telling a story about lifting bracelets from ladies at society events, then was somehow going on about the detailed inner workings of safes and the fascinating new catches and locks manufacturers were adding to 'guarantee' security.

"Sounds like more fun than counting notes in an office," he put in when Ned took a breath. "Why don't you do it more? Plenty of rich tossers just waiting to 'donate'." He winked.

"Too likely to get noticed," said Ned, shrugging. "I'm settled in London now. I like it here, I'm not risking everything I've built. But every so often an opportunity arises that's too lucrative to ignore and that no one else can pull off." A smug smile fought its way onto his face. "I'm the best."

"You've never seen me, Wynert," said Jacob. "Maybe I'm the best."

Ned snorted. He clapped Jacob on the arm and said, not unkindly, "Frye, you can't even beat my trains unless Bobby rigs the race route."

Jacob blinked for a moment, brain stumbling as it jumping tracks. "Rigged?" He shook his head. "Nah, you've got it wrong. The trains leave the same time as I do. Carriage gets there first, fair and square."

"Have you noticed it's always the same routes?" said Ned. "Locomotives have to slow down so they don't derail at tight bends. If you were racing from Waterloo to Victoria Station, with those long straight stretches, there's no way a carriage would come first." Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he added, "I _bet_ you."

Jacob perked up. "Is that a challenge, Wynert?"

He grinned and leaned back in his chair, arms spread in invitation. "Try me. What are you willing to wager? Ten pounds? Twenty?"

A slow, predatory smile slipped over Jacob's face. "I know you better than that. Money means nothing to you; you've got too much of it. If you really want to play, bet me a _favour_."

Ned's mouth twisted, playfully sour. Then he sighed, long and loud and said, "Well, it is your birthday."

"That it is!" declared Jacob, and raised his tankard to toast. "Cheers!"

"Cheers," Ned echoed, clanking the tankards together. "To your birthday – and my train."

_Dear Evie,_

_You won't see those 20 pounds unless you get to Greenie's mum's place without getting seasick, and you'll have to come back here to collect, so that's two trips. Still think you can win?_

_London's fine. Despite your prediction, I haven't burned it down. Not all of it. I'm teasing! Honestly, it's been dull. The Blighters are hanging on but we've claimed most of Kensington now, and more Rooks are on collection duty or escorting cargo than fighting. I've been sending them to clean up after the Blighters's messes just so we have something to pay them for._

_I took care of Callingham, Edith's handling it._

_George has moved in and is rearranging the curio shop so it looks like he knows about curios. He offered me your 'summation' but I didn't read it (three entire notebooks, sweet sister? Are you a wife or a nun?) but he says the Council did and now they're worried Starrick may have told other Templars where the Shroud is hidden and that they'll try to get it, even without the key. I told him I'll just keep killing them._

_I hope Greenie got you something sharp for our birthday. I found a dagger in a tiny shop in the Strand that's much easier to hide from the coppas than a kukri, and so sharp it can slice a man's heart in two with one strike._

_I took our friends out to the pub for the night. Even Ned came along. He claimed that Bobby's train races are rigged so yesterday we had a race on a new route, that he picked, and I still won. It was close and I ran down a few lampposts on the way, but don't tell him that. Bobby made a huge spectacle of it and made us a fortune. I told Ned I'd use it to buy him a better train and he laughed at me, Evie. Laughed! I'm devastated. I'll never recover. But he's promised to teach me to break into safes so he's not all bad._

_Give my best to Greenie. Tell him I still don't believe his mum's a princess. Tell her I saw the Maharajah last week and he gave me a message I can't pronounce but it means he hopes they're well &etc &etc and he's optimistic parliament might give him permission to travel soon._

_I miss you too. If you change your mind and come home I won't even say I told you so._

_Yours,  
Jacob_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done _so_ much reading on 19th century locks and safes for this, and I love it. Almost nothing made it into this chapter, but all the safe manufactureres referenced are real companies, though I've stretched some details.
> 
> The Horse & Groom is one of the beer bottle locations, in northwest City of London near Michael Reuge's vault and opposite a plaza with a statue.
> 
> Having [sleeper cars with private compartments](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleeping_car) _miiight_ be a stretch for this time and place but I don't care, Jacob and Agnes (and the driver?) live there, they need some comfort, and privacy. 
> 
> I may be drastically misrepresenting private telegrams here; I don't know how directed they could be at the time. Haven't researched it at all. Handwaving!
> 
> [Gelli is a small town in the Rhondda Valley, South Wales](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gelli,_Rhondda). Evie and Jacob's bios say they were raised by Cecily's mother till they were six, and that said mother was Welsh (and married an Englishman who worked in the Rhondda area), and Jacob's database bio implies they didn't live in Crawley during that time, so I've decided they were sent to live with their grandmother in Wales and moved back to Crawley when Ethan returned. I've also decided Cecily (rather than Ethan) came from a line of Assassins via her mother, because it's more fun that way.


	2. The Starrick Heist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob's intel has led him to Starrick's home, the former Templar headquarters. Clearly he needs to rob the place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first wrote and posted this chapter I was expecting to make this fic a lot longer, with large sections following either Jacob or Ned without the other; as it is, this chapter is now an outlier, focusing entirely on Jacob until the very end, and doesn't fit well anymore with the rest of the chapters. I considered splitting it out into a one-shot but that would mean jamming something new in here to fill the gap, and that would just end in a mess, so here it stays, with my apologies for the change of tone. That said, it was _so much fun_ to write this chapter as a full-on game-like mission.
> 
>  **Eagle vision:** I've gone with a very literal take on how Jacob and Evie experience eagle vision here, pretty much exactly as the game mechanics work for us (seeing in grey with red for enemies, seeing through floors and hearing through walls). I'd have liked to make it more nebulous and extra-sensory, but a dozen iterations of "Jacob felt X and knew Y many Templars were in place Z" is really dull and painful to write, plus this way I know you all can picture it.

Jacob perched silently on a roof in Kensington, hidden in the light sleety rain of a moonless night, and grinned.

Across the street was Starrick's personal estate, an elegant mansion about the size of Kenway's, though square with an enclosed courtyard, and it had taken him months to find. Months, and a lot of bribes to people who were better with paperwork than he was. Turns out the Templars had dozens of properties around the city, mostly owned through shell companies or as personal assets, and even with most of them dead or fleeing after Starrick's death, they were good at covering their tracks.

Although, looking closely – that was their red cross in the stained glass of several windows, glowing into the winter night for all the world to see. Maybe they weren't that dedicated to secrecy after all. Or maybe they were just stupid.

There were a lot of people inside, mostly Templars with some surviving Blighters as guards and heavy lifters; even if his informants hadn't alerted him, it would have been clear from a few minutes using eagle vision that they were trying to clear out whatever books and artefacts Starrick had stored there. Jacob couldn't guess why any of Starrick's trinkets were worth all this fuss but, according to one particularly reliable informant, they had orders to burn anything they weren't able to secure, and that made him just _too_ curious.

It also made the entire operation tricky. If he led the Rooks charging in to kill them all, they'd light the most valuable things on fire first. So, stealth it was.

The mansion had a large archway in the south wall that lead to the courtyard – with a huge locked iron gate, of course. All the commotion was focused there, on half a dozen wagons that were being loaded with chests from each wing of the house. Where they were planning to take it all, Jacob had no idea, but it would never arrive: In every direction, hidden out of sight at every intersection, Rooks were waiting to ambush any wagons that made it out the gate. 

Making sure they didn't was up to Jacob. 

He'd been here a little while now, watching activity through walls as Dave and Bill coordinated the ambush teams. The two of them were also on the rooftops, at each end of this block and able to see everything that happened at the gate. They would wait for either the wagons to come out to be ambushed, or Jacob's signal that all was well, and then they'd send the lads running in to take the reins and start the drive home. He could just see them at the edge of his vision: Bill was pacing, fiddling nervously with his unlit lantern, and Jacob resisted the urge to go over and tell him to stop worrying. This was going to be _fun_.

Jacob folded away his top hat, pulled on his hood, and fired his rope launcher.

He landed on the south roof directly above the courtyard gate and peered round; two snipers were nearby, one of them just on the other side of a chimney. Well, this would be easy. 

Jacob crept closer, careful not to slip on the wet tiles, checked that the man was looking away, then slid around the corner, pulled his feet out from under him, and slit his throat. He died with a whimper and a gurgle, and Jacob rolled his body into the shadows beside the chimney. 

Excellent. Now he had the perfect vantage point. 

The other sniper was on the west roof, and he spotted two more on the east and north ones, pacing in straight lines along the inner ring of the roof, watching the courtyard. Predictable. There were no snipers stationed in windows that he could see, but a lot of curtains were open, the lamplight glowing through them and flickering as people passed by.

Looking down, he counted four guards stationed inside the gate with another three pairs around the courtyard, standing at the grand double doorways in the middle of each of the inner walls. More were walking circles on the paved paths between delicate bushes and the flat grassy areas where the wagons were standing in churned-up mud. The sleet tonight had left everything soggy and, under the grumbling of the armed men milling about each of the half-dozen wagons, lifting and securing chests, was the constant squelching sound of boots and wheels in mud. It would be good cover noise for assassinations, and there were too many tracks already for Jacob to have to worry about leaving footprints.

So, nearly twenty enemies around his cargo and no innocents in sight. A few voltaic bombs would be perfect... if only he could be sure none of the cargo would detonate. Damn. 

Jacob circled to his right, heading for the eastern sniper, thinking. He had enough smoke bombs to blanket the area long enough for him to take out everyone on the ground with melee weapons, but that kind of massacre usually got out of hand, especially if someone glanced out a window and went to fetch reinforcements. Also, smoke bombs scared horses, and he didn't fancy being trampled. So no.

The east sniper went down with a grunt and the squelch of a blade through the heart.

Hmm, the horses. Even with all that hired muscle prancing around with their blades, there would be no escaping with those heavy wagons if the horses hitched up to them were lying dead in front of the wheels. Jacob frowned – he liked horses, they were gorgeous creatures – but it was an option.

Wait, no, it wasn't: Dead horses would be a very big sign of trouble and the Templars would burn everything. And it would make it very hard for his Rooks to drive the wagons away instead. Alright, forget it; the horses were safe. 

Cheered by the thought, Jacob hopped around the next chimney. The sniper on the north roof was dawdling, too busy scuffing his feet on the roof and grumbling under his breath about the cold to see death approach. He went down silently. 

From here Jacob had a good view of the open doorway on the west wall; there was a lot of activity there. Steadying himself to use his eagle vision, Jacob peered in and saw a pile of chests stacked inside – almost more than were already on the wagons. It looked like they were being inventoried. Turning slowly, Jacob took a closer look inside the east door, and then down at the north one, though that was much harder through all the floors; in both there were small stacks of chests still waiting inside and Templars were writing notes or marking the wood with knives.

Either they had started with the contents of the east and north wings and were finishing up, or there was a lot more coming from the west wing. Too bad he didn't have a layout of the interior, he might have been able to guess what rooms were where. Evie would have thought of that.

The sniper on the west roof saw him coming. Maybe he'd realised the others were missing, maybe not, but a thrown knife to the head ended the threat either way. Jacob settled on the clear patch of roof and considered his options.

The chests had to all be loaded in the wagons, preferably by the Templars. If he started a commotion before it was done, he and the Rooks would have to finish loading, and to buy them enough time he'd have to kill or at least incapacitate everyone in the building. That would be a lot of bodies to cart away, or else a huge police investigation for Freddy to deal with, and then Freddy would be grumpy.

Not to mention it would waste the inventory they were so kindly preparing for him.

Jacob smiled. Those inventories would tell him exactly what each chest was hiding! All he'd have to do was steal them.

He turned his eagle vision into the building. Of the three floors, nearly all activity was on the bottom two; they must have emptied the upper rooms already. Hallways ran along the inner walls and all the main rooms faced out onto the streets, just like the Kenway mansion. Some people were in scattered rooms, packing up, but most were going back and forth along the corridors, some slow as they carried chests, others quick and squeezing past obstacles. Some, he realised with a sinking heart, were innocents; domestic staff who were scurrying around anxiously with no idea what was happening. He bent his ear towards a conversation two women were having on a landing.

_"Have you finished the master bedroom?"_

_"Yes ma'am, except for the wardrobes. Mr Lee only said to get the valuables, I didn't know if he meant Mr Starrick's suits too. Do you think? I did get all the cufflinks and tie pins."_

_"Best check, we don't want trouble."_

The second woman covered her face, shaking her head. _"I can't ask him! You saw what they did to poor Mr Jennings."_

She sounded frightened, and the first woman – the housekeeper maybe? She was carrying a large ring of keys – squeezed her hands. _"Best you just pack the wardrobes anyway, then. They can't fault you for that. Mr Lee won't come to inspect until it's all packed and and Mr Robinson is much more reasonable."_

That was helpful. Jacob shifted his focus and listened, sifting through the layers of conversation in the house for a "Mr Lee".

He found it on the top floor in a room on the northwest side – a study, maybe. There was a large desk and a piano, and as he crept over the rooftop to get closer, he realised it was the same room that had all of those laughably unsubtle stained glass windows. Starrick's study, maybe? There were no chests or scurrying servants in the room, just three men – no, one was a woman – standing around talking. They sounded worried.

_"You're sure Frye doesn't know?"_

_"No, that's what I've been telling you! One of the gardeners disappeared yesterday, didn't collect his wages or anything."_

_"Could be dead."_

_"And he could be the man who tipped off those Rooks loitering about on Gloucester Road!"_

Damn, Davey had gotten careless. Oh well, they would detour down Bill's way instead. 

Jacob started to stand, then hesitated. He could slip in and kill Lee and his lieutenants now: as long as he hid the bodies, it would make for delays and confusion without suspicion. He didn't need to kill them to pull this off, but it would be satisfying, and would mean one less high-ranking Templar left in London. Or he could go for the inventories and try to identify the chests with more important things than Starrick's clothes, but they were scattered, held by three people on the ground floor, which was the busiest area. They could wait.

The two servants might be an option: If that one was the housekeeper, those keys would open most of the house, and she would certainly have information. It didn't sound like it would take much to turn them against their employers, and they could get word to the other staff to get out before the fighting began. 

So: kill Lee, get the inventories, or talk to the servants. Or all three. Oh, and he had to find and steal the key to the gate, or his Rooks were never getting in to nick the loaded wagons.

The Council were going to be impressed when they heard about this!

The servants first, he decided. They were splitting up, and the one who he assumed was the housekeeper was climbing up the stairs towards a stretch of empty rooms, probably guest bedrooms. She'd be easy to corner. 

Jacob picked his way over the roof to the south end, checking quickly for any enemies on the upper floors. There was a wide ledge under the windows and he leapt down silently onto the stone lip. On a winter's night like this every window was shut tight, but he'd picked up a thing or two about jimmying latches, and less than a minute later he had it; the window swung inward with only a little creak, and once inside he carefully redid the latch. Not a trace, not even a scratch. 

The housekeeper was two doors down, and stayed there as Jacob crept out of the first bedroom and down the carpeted hall. There were two Templars down the nearby staircase, but it was the square kind that turned sharply on a landing halfway down, and the angle meant they couldn't see this door. Jacob snuck in and shut it behind him.

"Good evening, Madam."

She shrieked and spun and backed up against the wall, and Jacob held up his hands to calm her. He glanced quickly towards the stairs, but the Templars hadn't heard it. Stupid mistake, he should have snuck up and covered her mouth first. 

"Shh, shh, I'm not here to hurt you!"

She had both hands clamped to her mouth and, slowly, Jacob reached out to touch her arm. "Shh, easy. Sorry about that."

"Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want?"

"I want to take down Mr Lee and hijack all these chests he's carting away. I'm hoping you could help me."

Her eyes narrowed and she let her arms lower a bit, but kept away, as far out of his reach as possible. Jacob stepped back and tugged off his hood so he could smile earnestly at her, get her to trust him. It usually worked. It worked this time: She breathed easier.

"Mr Lee owns this place since Mr Starrick's passing," she said carefully. "Why do you want his things?"

"Let's just say it's safer for everyone in London if Starrick's possessions stay out of the hands of the Templars."

She reacted to that last word, a little flinch that said plenty. Jacob pounced. "You know what they do, don't you."

She shuddered. "The amount of times we cleaned blood out of the carpets... It's awful, it is."

"I'm here to stop it. But it's going to be messy, and I could use your help. What do you know about their plans for tonight?"

She considered him, probably weighing up whether to trust him, then said: "Mr Lee hasn't said much. He turned up out of nowhere last week and shut himself up in the study and library – domestic staff's not allowed in there, not even to clean, so no one knows what he's been up to, even the worst gossips. We heard nothing about all this moving until today. Mr Lee has everyone in an awful fright, even his own people. Initiates, he called some of them."

So, the study and the library were where all the best things had been kept, and some of the Templars were green enough behind the ears to be unpredictable. Dangerous mix – his favourite kind. "Do you know where the chests from the study and library are now?"

"Downstairs mixed in with all the others, I expect."

Damn. "And Lee is going to inspect it all before they leave?" She nodded. "And they don't expect to hear from him before that?"

"No."

A wolfish grin crept across Jacob's face. Maybe there was a way to do this without the Templars even realising what was happening until it was too late. "Perfect. Here's what I need you to– What's your name?"

"Ellen, sir."

"Ellen. What's the biggest room in here that that has only one door?"

She blinked. "That would be the north sitting room. It's on the ground floor, just off the front doors."

He nodded. "Wait here for a few minutes, then walk to the study. If anyone there can see the door, walk past it and circle back a minute or two later. If there's no one, stop for a minute near the door, then keep going; enough time that someone might have stepped out to speak with you. Tell every Templar you meet that something has happened and Mr Lee wants to see them in the north sitting room at–" he glanced at a clock; it was twenty past seven "–quarter to eight. Make it sound like he's angry but you don't know why, and tell them to keep it under their hats."

Ellen shook her head. "They'll never keep mum on my word alone, sir."

"No, but they'll get nervous, so they won't be thinking about you. Any of your domestic staff you come across, tell them the same but to go to– the kitchen has a back door?" She nodded. "Send them all there and get them out of the house."

She thought it through, eyeing him. "And what happens to me when Mr Lee tells his people he never gave me no orders to gather them?"

"He won't."

Her eyes flittered sceptically over the blade on his gauntlet, his pistol and the kukri strapped to his leg. She raised her chin. "I won't aid or abet murder, sir."

"Not at all, Ellen! These are only to protect myself." He smiled innocently. "I can put Mr Lee in a chokehold that will put him to sleep for hours. He won't even know I'm there, and when he wakes up he'll be confused. If you ever see him again you can say he was disoriented when he gave you that order. He'll believe it, trust me. My sister is very good at those chokeholds." He rubbed his neck for effect. _Oh, poor me, bested by a girl. I'm so open about it that you couldn't doubt the rest is true too, could you?_

It seemed to work. Ellen nodded carefully and asked, "And the men in the sitting room?"

"I'm just going to lock them in so they can't interfere while my people take the wagons," he promised, and he meant that one, for now at least. "Oh right – who has the key to the courtyard gate?"

"That'd be Mr Lee, he's keeping a hand in everything."

"Ta."

Giving Ellen too much time to think would be a mistake, so he peeked out the door (and through it, but she couldn't know that) and looked down the hall and to the stairs. "There's no one there. I'm going to follow you to the study – I'll stay well back, I promise. Come on." And he slipped out the door so she had no choice but to follow. 

They had to cross most of the length of the wing, but once past the stairs and the pair of Templars directing traffic below them, the way was clear. Ellen was not a natural at subterfuge; she kept glancing back a Jacob, startled every time by how he was casually walking behind her, not skulking between shadows or behind tables, only his lowered hood to hide him. After the third time, as they approached the study, he flicked his hands to shoo her on and made a show of pressing himself into the nearest doorway just to get her to stop. 

There were no Templars in sight around the study or down the north corridor, and Ellen paused as instructed – not really long enough, but it didn't matter as no one had seen her walk there – then went on, with one last glance back at Jacob. Jacob smiled and waved.

The three Templars still in the study were gathered at a window. The door was locked, but that was no problem, and Jacob timed the last _snickt_ of the tumblers to be muffled by the woman's snappish voice. He waited with the doorknob turned and door closed, smoke bomb in hand, until they were all looking away.

Ten seconds later they were on the floor and he was alone in the closed study. Barely any of the smoke had made it into the corridor. 

The room had been stripped: empty bookcases, scratches on the floor where heavy items had been dragged, ripples and flat squares in the rugs where chests had been placed and pulled. The desk was still there, all its drawers empty, and it was wide enough to hide all three bodies behind it. The blood pools he covered with a rug: If anyone had a key to the study, they would peek in to find it empty. Speaking of...

The two men were dressed similarly, no way to know which was Lee, so Jacob fished through both their pockets until he found a key of the right size and colour for the gate. Excellent!

Now for the inventories. Ellen was working her way around the first floor, and all the Templars with inventories were on the ground floor, so if he was quick he could get them before the men holding them were sent to the sitting room.

The nearest staircase led down to the wide north corridor with five Templars scattered along it, all in view of each other. Jacob considered climbing out the window and breaking into another on the ground floor, but it was cold out there.

He whistled. Two of them reacted, one leading the other up the stairs. Jacob slipped back into the study and left the door ajar and, predictably ( _so_ predictably; if he ever trained initiates he would teach them better, good God), they came to have a look. Jacob snatched the first as he rounded the door, killed him and swung out to stab the other before he could do more than jump and draw his pistol.

Two more bodies behind the desk. The blood spatter was minimal this time. Well done, Jacob!

When he returned and perched at the top of the landing, two of the three Templars had moved further away, and the last was watching the loading out the window. Slowly and carefully, Jacob moved down the stairs, crept up behind him, and stabbed. 

This one went into the nearest empty room.

The stairwell to the ground floor also doubled back on itself, and there were too many Templars below to sneak up on or past, but the tight space was perfect for a smoke bomb. Jacob crept to the landing, aimed it, threw, and sped down the stairs in among the coughing. The Templar with the inventory was up ahead, and Jacob padded up to him and swiped the small notebook right out of his hand.

"Fire?" he said in their ears as he passed, trying to sound alarmed instead of amused. "Is there a _fire_?"

Within seconds, they were repeating it, alarmed, and Jacob slid into a curtained alcove as far away as possible just as the smoke cleared. 

North side: Done.

Their alarm calmed as they could breathe normally again, and they looked around for the source of the smoke. "Must've blown in from outside," one of them said after a minute or so. "Or the kitchen?" And the others murmured yes, I suppose so, guess you're right, Johnny.

Templars! Oh well, their stupidity was useful.

Through the walls and curtains he peered round as much of the house as he could, though the south wing was out of range. Ellen was coming down to the ground floor now, and she would reach the man with the east side inventory before he could. He'd have to get that later.

He waited till the Templars weren't looking, then slipped out and crept into the west corridor.

It was even busier. A smoke bomb here wouldn't work, but one Templar was straggling, and it was easy to creep up and kidnap him. Watching over his shoulder, Jacob walked them into an empty room – a music room, it looked like – dropped his host's body out of sight, and a moment later crouched behind the door and whistled. 

Two minutes and three Templars later, the man who had lost the north wing inventory was lured in, and with him disposed of, risk of discovery was back down, and all in all Jacob wasn't leaving too many bodies in his wake. If he could keep going this way, the Templars would clean it all up themselves rather than risk the identities of their Order members being exposed, even as corpses, and Freddy would get to have a quiet night on patrol.

Jacob made his way along the west corridor, hopping into alcoves and doorways along the way as needed. The rooms here were still busy being packed up, so the inventory would be incomplete, but better than nothing. 

The large foyer where the chests were being piled was open to the courtyard, but in deference to the cold the doors weren't actually open; they were unfastened and were being pushed open as needed when men carried chests out, mostly by shoulder without anyone actually looking. From his hiding place, Jacob waited and watched their patterns.

The men bringing chests in from the corridors on either side came erratically, whenever they were ready, but less than once a minute, and they put their chests down wherever was closest and gave a brief description to the man writing the inventory – "Books from the library" or "Papers from Miss Thorne's office". Then they would head back while the lone Templar wrote it down and gave the chest a number, both on paper and on the wood. 

Four men, in pairs, carried the chests outside. They were quicker coming back than going out, and often one pair would be stuck waiting in the courtyard with a chest hoisted between them while the previous pair were still lifting theirs onto the wagon. Good: he'd strike when both pairs were outside.

He kept an eye out for Ellen. Timing would be tricky on this one, but he had a smoke bomb in case things went wrong.

Ellen was moving quicker now, talking to three or four Templars at a time and moving along before they could ask questions. Jacob hadn't been watching the clocks and wasn't sure what time it was, but it was probably getting close to quarter-to. He could probably safely leave them stewing in the sitting room for five or ten minutes after that before they started wondering (or wandering), and he'd hear them start to leave. Just at the edge of his range was what had to be the sitting room, already filling up with pacing figures.

Ellen had just stepped into the last room that was being packed up, three doors down. In the foyer, the second pair of movers were lifting a chest, and Jacob waited, muscles tense in a crouch. The inventory man was several paces away and looking his direction, but there was nothing to be done about that. 

The movers shuffled out the door. There was no one watching. 

Jacob dashed out of hiding and up to the lone Templar, punching him in the gut and wrenching an arm behind his back. He dropped his inventory book in surprise and Jacob caught it with his free hand – barely – tucked it into his overcoat, and shove-walked the man to the nearest doorway. "Don't make me hurt you."

He gasped and wriggled but Jacob bent three of his fingers backwards and used the leverage to keep him moving. They were inside a hair's breath before a pair of men came back in from the cold. 

There was no time to waste; he stabbed the man's throat and crouched behind the door as the movers looked around, confused. Barely ten seconds later, Ellen walked in. "Sirs, Mr Lee needs everyone to hurry to the north sitting room. We're all to be there by quarter to eight."

"Why, wha's happened?"

Ellen wrung her hands. It looked a little rehearsed, but the Templars didn't notice. "I don't know, sir, no one knows! Something's happened but no one will tell me. I'm just to deliver the message, sirs."

They murmured uncomfortably, then repeated Ellen's message to the other pair of movers as they came back in; one of them went back to tell the men guarding the door outside. From down the corridor the men who'd been packing up started to flow in, some hauling chests that had been hastily closed. They left the new chests in a different spot and went on, all whispering to each other.

"Do you know what's up?"

"Not sure. Nothing good."

"Mr Lee wouldn't be gathering us for no good reason, would he?"

"No _good_ reason."

Their voices faded off. The two men on guard outside the courtyard doors stayed put, probably reasonably assuming that since Mr Lee hadn't specifically said to abandon their posts they were to wait till the others came back to relieve them. Unfortunate, but Jacob could handle that. He took a good look up and around the house: every room and corridor in this wing, the north wing, and the south wing as far as he could see, were clear, other than the busy sitting room and the kitchen; he couldn't quite see into the east wing. There were still almost twenty men in the courtyard, but he could handle them. 

He stepped out carefully. There were almost a dozen inventoried chests still stacked and waiting to be loaded; he and the Rooks would have to do that. From what he'd seen in the north wing there couldn't be more than five there, but he'd no idea what was in the east wing, though he'd guess it was about the same. It was more than he'd have liked, but once the Rooks had control of the wagons, they'd have more freedom to battle it out without risking the loot.

Oh, and then there was whatever else still hadn't finished being packed. They'd have to search the downstairs rooms and ransack anything that seemed worthwhile, then pack it, then load it, _then_ drive away. Jacob sighed.

He could just leave the rest and settle for what had already been loaded... but then he'd have to tell George, and the Council, that he'd only completed most of the mission objective, and that bothered him.

The way to the sitting room was clear, but he kept low as he passed open curtains just in case the men in the courtyard glanced his way. As he neared the sitting room he got a better view of the east wing, and there were two people still in it, but they weren't Templars. Domestics, then. Ellen should have gotten them out already; all the rest were huddled in the kitchen in the south wing, some already hurrying out into the alley and into the street. He hoped they'd stay out of the way.

The sitting room door was closed, but the worried muttering was spilling out for anyone to hear. The man with the east wing inventory was already inside and there was no way to get to him just now, not stealthily. He might be able to slip in and stun them all with voltaic bombs, but if the range didn't quite reach the edges of the room... No, not worth it. He could kill them later.

Jacob considered the door. Someone inside would likely have a key, and he didn't so he couldn't lock them in anyway, but the doors opened outward, and – aha! There were two heavy oak tables just nearby. He gripped the edge of one and began to pull.

It scraped loudly on the floor and Jacob froze, but the noise inside was too loud; no one had noticed. He pulled harder, backing up quickly, until the table was hard up against the doorway, pinning it closed. 

The other table would add some weight, keep it closed longer, but it was in front of a window that looked straight at the wagons. Not worth the risk... Oh, but the curtains had thick ropes tying them back, ones long enough that Jacob could wind them round the door handles twice. He knotted them tight, then hurried back to the open north doors and grinned.

 _Now_ for the fun part. 

He whistled, drawing the two nearest guards inside and double assassinated them before they realised what was happening. From there he could see the pairs of guards at the east and west doors, and the four at the south gate. Six more men roamed the courtyard – the drivers, probably doubling as guards – and a pair of lookouts sat on two of the fully loaded wagons. They were blue-lipped and shivering. 

Killing anyone in the middle would be noticed right away, so Jacob took his throwing knives to the men at the west doors first, sending them down silently and watching to see who noticed.

It was one of the wandering drivers. He tensed, hesitated, then stepped over to look.

Third knife, third thud– One of the lookouts jumped.

Fourth knife, a gurgle. The other lookout turned.

Fifth knife, a louder thud as he fell off the wagon. Three of the wandering drivers noticed.

Sixth, seventh, eighth, but now the gate guards had noticed, and the east guards were alerted by the noise. Time to shine.

Jacob sprang out into plain view and ran for the wagons. A shot rang out – missed – and Jacob countered with a knife between the man's eyes. One down, eight to go. 

Two more shots, but now one of the brutes was in arm's reach. Jacob hopped down on the other side of the wagon, darted round, and sank his hidden blade into the man's back.

Three more reached him at once, and his kukri flashed – he sliced once, twice into the first man, darted across to hit another in the face, back to face the third – a slash to the gut, back to the second – fist to the face, cut the throat – turned to the third, threw the kukri into his head.

Four left. 

Horses were whinnying now, alarmed and rearing, and one man backed up a moment to avoid flailing hooves. Jacob threw a knife and he was down.

Three.

One man was running for a door towards reinforcements that weren't there, and a barricaded sitting room that was. Jacob sprinted past the wagons for a clear aim, threw it – down he went.

Two.

Both of them were on him, tackling him to the ground. Jacob kicked – this brute was huge, didn't move. Hidden blade sprang out into the neck – he slumped, a deadweight on Jacob's hips. 

The last man got in close and started punching, hard. Jacob wrenched himself free and rolled, out of the way, buying himself a few seconds, and stabbed with his kukri.

Done.

The courtyard was quiet. Not silent, some of the men were still dying, groaning and weeping, and Jacob ended it quickly for the ones within reach. The horses were skittish and shying but there wasn't time to soothe them: the men in the sitting room could have easily heard those shots, and the oak table and curtain ropes wouldn't hold out forever. 

Sprinting over the bodies, Jacob shoved the big awkward key into the gate and turned – it creaked something awful – and hauled both doors open. The streetlamps were bright on this spot and he would be easy to see from across the street, but being seen wasn't the signal Dave and Bill were waiting for. Jacob put fingers to his lips and let out the loudest whistle he could, and a moment later two lit lanterns appeared on each end of the rooftops and swung back and forth a few times before going dark.

Signal received.

The boys were fast, and less than a minute later the first of them appeared, Dave in the lead. "Get the full wagons out now," Jacob ordered in a low voice. "There's more chests waiting inside those doors" – he pointed to all three, the west first – "Get them loaded. Dave, there's a few dozen Blighters shut in a room that way – keep them in while we clear the place."

Dave nodded and pointed at three of his biggest men: "You three, with me."

"Go quietly, they're not suspicious yet," warned Jacob. "If they break out, you'll be outnumbered – just run, and sound the alarm."

"Aye, Boss."

Bill's team was arriving, so Jacob turned to give them the same orders. "You supervise here," he told Bill. "Anything goes wrong, get out; we'll follow."

"Where will you be?"

"Some of the rooms aren't empty; I'll see what needs taking," said Jacob. He turned and hurried to the nearest doors, calling for the nearest Rooks to follow. 

Ransacking the place was easier and harder than he'd thought; easier, because the leftover rooms were already a mess, with chests half-filled and easy to throw things into, harder because he was distracted keeping an eye and both ears out for trouble. Most of what was left seemed ordinary – shelves of books, small knickknacks, displays of _delightful_ foreign weapons – but any of it could be what had Lee so worried he'd wanted it burned rather than stolen, so Jacob threw everything in and dashed back and forth to the wagons, loading as fast as possible.

When two wagons and half a dozen chests were left, a crash of glass echoed across the grounds, gunshots following a moment later. Jacob jumped off the wagon he was loading and ran for the doors, but Dave and his lads were already backing out, firing. Jacob spun back around. 

"GO!" he bellowed, smacking the horses. "Go, now!"

The Rooks that were halfway to the fight stumbled and turned back, leaping onto the wagons or just sprinting for the gate. Bill snapped the reins and raced out, taking several clinging Rooks to safety, and Jacob took a quick glance through the walls – nearly all red, Dave and his lads were all in the courtyard – then raced to the door, past the last of his Rooks, and threw in a few voltaic bombs.

He was the last to climb on the wagon before Dave took off at a gallop, and hung on as they swung out through the gate, into the street. Gunshots followed, but the Templars had no horses, and their furious screams faded into the distance.

Jacob sat back and laughed.

"Two days!" he ranted. "It took _two days_ to go through all those chests, all _eighty-three_ chests, half of them had no inventories, the ones that did were useless, and do you know what was _in_ there?"

Ned, tapping his fingers on the desk beside his neatly disassembled and entirely neglected puzzle lock, was seriously considering throwing it at Jacob's head. "Why, I don't know, Frye," he drawled. "Why don't you _tell_ me?"

"PAPERS! Piles of them! Folders and ledgers and notebooks and years of correspondence all filed _by month_!" He sounded pained. "Everything else was antique clocks or Starrick's knickers or sets of silverware. Do you know how _heavy_ those were?"

Ned frowned, actually puzzled now. "Well, what were you expecting? Information is the only thing I've ever known a man to rather destroy than lose to a thief."

With a big sigh, Jacob finally stopped storming around the room and dropped into the chair across from Ned. "I know," he said, looking miserably disappointed. "I was hoping for– something. Something exciting." Then he shrugged, shook it off. "Anyway, that's why I'm here."

"I thought you were here to learn to break into safes," Ned said pointedly.

"Oh, that too," Jacob said, brightening, "but that's fun. Business first. I need your help."

Ned blinked. "With – those papers? Why?"

"Most of them are accounts," said Jacob. "Records and ledgers and taxes. I know Starrick had a lot of illegal sources of income but I just can't _find_ them in all that." 

"Did you look for the pound symbol?"

Jacob rolled his eyes. "I manage all the Rook money now," he said. "All the wages and protection fees and bribes and training and it's _boring_ and takes ages every bloody week but I can do it. But this – I don't even know half of what they're talking about."

"And you think I do? Frye, I run a very small, _very_ specialised syndicate of thieves and fences. I'm not a bookkeeper."

"But you do run a business; you move and hide a lot of money and you know how to keep it looking respectable at the same time. Just like Starrick! You'll be able to see what he was doing in those numbers."

Ned shrugged. "Possibly."

"Course you can! You're bloody brilliant. So here's the deal: You get the names of everyone who worked for him, all his businesses – and I persuade them to work for us instead."

He grinned, eyes gleaming, and Ned felt his eyebrows hit his hairline. " _Us_? You..." He pinched his nose, processing. "You're offering me a share."

"Of course," said Jacob. "What are friends for?"

Ned bit his tongue. Business and friendship _shouldn't mix_ , it was a terrible idea, but that ship had well and truly sailed. Probably always had, with Jacob, the man was trusting to a fault. 

Not for the first time, Ned wondered how he'd managed this long without any of the Rooks or the pubs and businesses they ran swindling him dry. Probably sheer charisma alongside all those weapons, but that wouldn't save him from tax laws or audits or police investigations. And Ned... really didn't want to see that happen. Not to Jacob. 

And it was potentially a lot of money. A _lot_ of money, which Ned could use for so _many_ things. He was a talented man; he could get rich and protect his friend at the same time. 

But it would have to be done right, and on his terms. Bracing his elbows on the desk, Ned looked steadily at Jacob. "You're proposing a partnership," he said, to clarify. "A long-term partnership, potentially. To use any of that money we're going to need a shell company with both our names on it."

Jacob flung his arms wide. "Frye and Wynert!" he declared– then paused. "Or Wynert and Frye, if you want?"

"I don't care, I meant our signatures on the paperwork; the name would be safer as something anonymous. It's got to look completely legitimate. Not just getting the money in, but how it goes out; fake names and jobs, code words for bribes–"

"Of course."

"And," he said, eyes steady on Jacob's, "I want exactly fifty percent of any profits, after taxes."

Jacob shrugged. "Done."

Ned rolled his eyes. "You're a terrible negotiator. I'm doing all the negotiations for our company."

"Fine, fine. So you're in?" he asked brightly."Partner?" He held out an open hand, eager and bright with anticipation.

Ned hesitated. "There might be nothing," he hedged. "Business moves fast, and Starrick died months ago. All those income avenues could have dried up."

He shrugged. "Still worth a try, right?"

"Right," said Ned. Well, as long as that was clear..."All right – I'm in." He took Jacob's hand and shook it, firm as he could. "Partner."


	3. The Going Rate for the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Money is complicated. People are even more so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Railway lines and stations** , I tried to find a good map and pick the right stations for the travel described in this chapter, but struggled, probably because so many were being built and changed at the time. Then I found out that [Whitechapel station didn't open till 1876](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whitechapel_station), so decided that if the game was playing that fast and loose with facts, I could too, and simplified the whole lot. So these lines and stations and all are _sort of_ right, with some dates and connections and whether they were a terminus or not creatively ignored. I'm using mostly the [Met Line](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metropolitan_Railway), though St. Pancras wasn't on it; King's Cross was, which is close, and I wanted at least one station to be on our mental map from the game.  
> Point is, if you know London railways and know how wrong I am, I tried!
> 
>  **Adam Worth** is mentioned in Ned's database bio. He was a [real person](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam_Worth), and was the inspiration for Sherlock Holmes's nemesis Professor Moriarty, though the real man doesn't seem to have been quite the all-knowing mad genius, just a really good and clever thief.

Say what you will about George – and Jacob had said a lot over the years – but the man was a good listener. He asked questions here and there and had a sharp ear for skipped details (all right, Jacob hadn't strictly _needed_ to kill Lee, but what was the harm, really?), but mostly he listened, leaned in with a grin at the best parts, and he enjoyed a triumphant end as much as the next bloke.

"Eighty-three chests!" he exclaimed when Jacob finished describing the Starrick estate heist. He sat back in their booth and laughed, big and merry and still quiet enough to keep from drawing too much attention from the patrons of the pub – a new acquisition now that the Rooks had taken Bayswater, not that anyone there knew it. "My god, that's good news. Well done, man! Cheers!"

He raised his tankard for a toast and Jacob, grinning hugely, smacked them together with a _clunk_. "Cheers!" He threw back a mouthful.

George looked around over the top of his drink and leaned in a little. "And you have them all secured?"

With his head still tipped back and halfway through a gulp of his pint, Jacob nodded; thin lines of ale spilled down his beard and neck. He rubbed them off with his cuffs. "On my train. I'll start bringing them round tomorrow, if all goes well."

"I'm not sure I have enough room in the curio shop," said George. "Certainly not enough to search their contents too. I can take maybe two dozen at most. Can you hold on to the rest for now? I'll send them on to Crawley soon as I can."

Jacob shrugged. Most of the chests were in a new cargo car he and Agnes had acquired the day after the heist – there were seven in all now, including Agnes' treasured kitchen and dining car – but even with that, so many had to be stacked in the library car that he'd spent the past week twisting his way through narrow gaps and using them as benches when he couldn't reach his couch. Ned, when he came by to pick through yet more of the files, had used them as both seat and table. "It's a big train."

"Good man." George took a sip and sat back in the booth. "You know, I think this is my new favourite pub," he said, and Jacob followed his eye to the lovely woman singing with the piano. He grinned, and George rolled his eyes. "None of that," he groused, giving Jacob's arm a little shove. "Don't tell me you don't like it."

Jacob spread his hands wide. "I have lots of favourite pubs."

George chuckled. "You certainly visit enough of them. Any suggestions?"

"Not the Lord Nelson," said Jacob, making a face. "They only serve Bazalgettte's bloody Respite, and if you don't choke on that you must be dead already."

"I've already made my report on the Strand anyway," said George. "The Council was pleased to hear that none of the factories are using child labour anymore." He paused and added, "I didn't mention that your Rooks are working there instead."

"Why not? We're employing the people of London. I want them to know all about the work we've done."

George's face curled into a frown, and Jacob sighed inside – that was his lecture face. "Assassins are supposed to be _anonymous_ ," he said in a low voice. "Half of London already knows your name, and the other half know you by reputation."

Jacob rolled his eyes. "That's the point of being a gang leader."

With a big sigh – his disappointed sigh, the one that used to mean he'd be complaining to Father and then Father would come to tell him how bad he was at everything – George sat back and shook his head. "Sooner or later you're going to have to justify yourself to them. Why not return to Crawley with me next week? Surely you miss home."

"There's nothing there to miss," said Jacob, taking another swing. Then he paused, thinking. "Well. I miss my horse." Lightning had been a tired old beast, but he'd always perked up when Jacob had come by the stables. He'd wheezed his way into the grave a few years ago, and George knew it. 

George groaned and downed another swig of his ale. "All right, fine." He turned back to watch the singer. "I don't suppose any of those chests you stole had Starrick's financial records?"

Carefully casual, Jacob took a long drink. "I haven't seen anything," he said, which was true: Maggie had done the quick-glance inventory of those chests and he'd just passed them on to Ned. They could have been sketchbooks for all he'd seen. George sighed.

"I suppose the Templars emptied his accounts as soon as they could. Shame. The Council could have put that money to good use. God knows how difficult it's going to be to establish headquarters here without it."

"They could all move into the curio shop," said Jacob. George laughed.

"I can see it now. Council meetings around the countertop. Mr Edgeworth chairs from on top of the stuffed bear. New resolution: Sell the bear."

Grinning, Jacob threw back the rest of his drink. "Come on, let's get another."

A few hours later, happily fuzzy and only slightly wobbly, Jacob made his way back to the train, trying not to wonder what Evie would say about lying to the Council when they were, finally, trying to do something other than sit on their arses and wait. 

The money in Starrick's accounts _was_ long gone, but Soothing Syrup had been just the start: According to Ned, the man had been quietly making money in dozens of markets with goods and products that didn't have his name all over them. A lot of those avenues had dried up since his death, but there were plenty more, legal and illegal. What the Council didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

Evie might say that the Council would use that money for the greater good of the people. Or she might say that he and the Rooks were already doing that directly, and things were no different than when the two of them had been conquering the city borough by borough. Her next letter should be arriving soon, but he wasn't going to ask: If he did, she might answer.

He sighed, pulled his scarf tighter against the cold, and shoved it out of his mind. It was a nice night, a bit of snow crunching under his feet and floating round in the lamplight, making the air fresh under its bite. It muffled everything, leaving a hush in the air that always reminded him of Christmas at Granny's, of hot food and new knives, and the memory made him smile. 

He caught up to his train at Paddington Station, stamping his boots out on the dry floor and brushing snow off his sleeves. Bertha stood waiting ahead of him, puffing in her brief rest. At this time of night, only the bar car was brightly lit; not many Rooks were about that had homes to go to, and Agnes and Bob were asleep in their compartments while Bob's apprentice kept things running. 

Except the lights in the library car were on too. It should have been locked up tight when Ned left – the safe was in there, and only Jacob and Agnes had keys.

Jacob tensed and dropped into a crouch. It was dark on the platform, but not enough: he slipped into the shadows of the wall and looked around, listened carefully, and darted to the train with silent steps. All was still inside, but that meant nothing. 

He kept low as he slipped onto the gangway and tested the lock on the library end of the car: It was open.

The train was moving again now, picking up speed, and under the rhythmic chugging sound that lulled him to sleep every night, Jacob turned the knob and slipped inside, shutting it silently behind him a breath later.

No movement, but lamplight spilled between the stacks of chests that had been piled up against the bookshelves, leaving only a narrow path along the middle of the car. Jacob peered around the corner– and relaxed.

Ned was at Agnes' desk, head down and fast asleep. 

His coat was hung neatly over the back of the chair, his hat and overcoat were on hooks by the door, and his face was buried in a mess of rumpled white sleeves and bare elbows. Account books were stacked around him, some propped open against the wall with paperweights, and his cheek was planted square in the middle of his notebook. Ink had smeared on his face. 

He looked... The right word wouldn't come to mind, but it was small and warm, and maybe that was why Jacob didn't sneak up and scare him for a laugh; maybe that was why it didn't even occur to him. Instead he stepped back out of sight, reached for the door handle, opened it and shut it with a bang.

Ned jumped up, slow and heavy, and straightened as Jacob rounded the stacked chests. He squinted and pulled on his glasses. "Frye. What time is it?"

"Just gone two, I'd say." Jacob strode down the car and hopped up to sit on a chest by the desk. "Sleeping on the job, are we?"

Ned snorted and stretched, lacing his fingers together as he leaned back in the chair. "What can I say? There's always more work to be done. Did you find Beckinsale?"

Jacob grinned. That had been a fun morning. "Mr Beckinsale would be _delighted_ to sell his glassware to us. He's expecting me back with a draft contract in a few days."

Ned raised an eyebrow and started unrolling his sleeves. "Did you threaten him?" he asked dryly. 

"Took him out for a drink." Jacob sat back on his makeshift seat and propped his boots on the chest across the aisle. "Some conditions though. Seems his agreement with Starrick's shell company included shipping out of Wapping, and without it he's struggling to cover costs to keep his factory running. If we can work out something for that, he's in."

Ned waved a hand. "That's easy, I have a train going that way anyway. But we should act like it's a burden. How much do you think we can get him to knock off the base price?"

"He said Starrick got five percent. Is that normal? I acted like it was too low."

Ned shook his head. "It's fine, we'll make a tidy profit even without the discount." He leaned his elbows on the desk as he buttoned his cuffs. "Seems you're not bad at negotiation after all. Maybe I should leave all this to you and take the week off," he said, waving a hand at the account books. Jacob wrinkled his nose. 

"Only if I get to rename our company. 'Wrye & Co.' is _boring_."

"Too late, the paperwork's filed, we just need to sign the last documents – don't forget to come by my office tomorrow." Ned yawned and leaned over to begin closing the books, jotting down some things in his notebook as he did so. "Besides, you wanted both our names in there."

Jacob fought the urge to yawn too, and failed. "Yes, but–" the yawn forced its way out "–I still say 'Frye & Wynert's Timely Transport and Secure Security' is better."

That got a smile out of him. "Do you ever take anything seriously?"

"I can never take seriously a man who has ink on his face."

Ned reached up – then caught sight of his inky fingers and sighed. Jacob chuckled and dug out a handkerchief. "Here."

"Thanks, but I have one," said Ned, and carefully tugged it out of his vest pocket. He leaned over the hip-high chests to find his reflection in the window and began wiping away the smudges on his cheek and nose. "Where are we, anyway? What's the next station?"

"Just left Paddington, going east. St. Pancras is up soon. It'll be an hour before we swap to the line for Waterloo."

Ned rolled his eyes, amused. "I don't live at my office, Frye. St. Pancras is fine." He settled back into Agnes' chair, rubbing what ink he could off his hands, and tossed the now-ruined handkerchief into his bag.

"There's spare compartments in the sleeping car. You're welcome to borrow one."

But Ned shook his head. "I know, Agnes offered when she went to bed. But I'm fine."

Jacob shrugged and toyed with one of the pens from the desk, flipping it in his hand. "So who are we selling all these glass bottles to, anyway?" 

"Apothecaries and doctors use the small ones for medicines," said Ned, and nodded to the account books again. "Looks like Starrick sold most of the large ones to distilleries. There's a few I know that would be happy to switch providers in exchange for our benefits."

"Rook protection for their shops and shipments, and now your trains and wagons delivering goods to their door." Jacob shook his head. "You're a clever bastard, you know that?"

Ned grinned. "That's the game, Frye. And I'm very good at it." He stretched again, twisting to work the kinks out of his neck. "That said, I know I can absorb the shipping costs, but I can't balance our books if I don't know our security costs. What do you pay your Rooks?"

"Base pay? Four shillings a week, just for being Rooks. That covers patrolling the boroughs and keeping an eye out for trouble and on the shops we're protecting. Anyone doing a special job gets extra. For escorting cargo like this, another bob for the day."

"So half-dozen guards for a day of deliveries is six shillings. Hmm." Ned looked surprised, and Jacob couldn't read from his face if he thought it was too much or too little for a gang member – it was more than the average labourer made, if not by much.

"There's almost eight hundred Rooks now," Jacob pointed out. Ned rolled his eyes.

"Don't get defensive, Frye, it's a good wage, and far better than letting someone pay them to be Blighters. I was thinking maybe I'll hire some of your boys as extra security for my warehouse, but then we've got to decide if the cost should come out of our joint profits or if I'll pay them out of Wynert Shipping's accounts."

Oh. Well, that was fine. Jacob relaxed and shrugged. "How much of what they're guarding will be our goods or just yours?"

Ned frowned. "Probably mostly mine, but if that changes we can revisit the arrangement. Can you send me ten men per shift, night and day? Or three shifts, but then it's ten pence a head."

"I'll tell Bill, he'll arrange it."

The train was slowing now, announced by quiet screeches from the brakes, and Ned packed his notebook into his bag and reached for his coat. Jacob glanced out at the dark platform. "You sure you don't want to kip here? It's bloody freezing."

But Ned shook his head again, wrapping a scarf round his neck and taking his heavy overcoat off the hook. "Thanks, but it's not far." He pulled gloves out of a pocket and shook one out to pull it on. "Besides, the only people out this late are bobbies and Rooks. I'll be fine. See you tomorrow?"

Jacob nodded, walking with him to the door. The train jolted slightly as it finally stopped. "Not sure what time though."

"Any when before three is fine." Ned popped his hat on his head and opened the door, stepping out onto the gangway. "Goodnight."

Ned was still whistling happily as he reached home, head spinning with numbers and names and details of property deeds and market prices and black market prices, and all the till-now invisible threads they could pull to redirect so much of that lovely cashflow through Wrye & Co. on its way to the good people of London. It was only a fraction of the complicated web of income Starrick had built, but the potential was staggering.

What Ned couldn't figure out, besides _how_ Starrick had had his fingers in so many pies, was _why_ – but that was a mystery for later, for whenever Jacob stopped pretending he and Evie hadn't been out to get this one man in particular. For now, he had work to do and money to make.

Ned swept up his mail and turned on the nearest light, and locked the front door behind him. He pulled off his shoes and coats and, out of habit, glanced round to check that all the curtains were shut tight before unbuttoning his vest and making his way to his bedroom. The bandages under his shirt had come loose sometime during the evening, and Ned had walked the whole way home with a bag strap strategically over his right side and his arm held against his left, squashing the errant tits flat.

It was itchy again too, and Ned sighed in relief as he finished unbinding his ribs, looking over his shoulder at the mirror. The skin on his left side and back was rough and red and would need ointment, but none of it was broken this time, and the itch wasn't so bad he wouldn't sleep. Ned pulled on a loose nightshirt and dressing gown, keeping his eyes closed to block out the flopping lumps that were the bane of his life, and went to the pantry to fix a snack. 

On the way, he picked up his mail and flipped through it: A letter from the printing shop downstairs (probably another offer to print something for him at a discount; they were on the verge of bankruptcy again), an envelope from his neighbour, Mrs James (on new stationary, with the mark of the printers downstairs), two letters from a former business associate who was convinced he could marry his daughter off to Ned if he just _kept trying_ , and a letter from–

Adam Worth. 

Ned sighed. 

Letters from Adam were always bright and cheerful, and this was no exception. _My good friend Ned!_ it began, and Ned began skimming the pages, looking for anything like "I heard Lord Jones has acquired a wonderful Turner painting!" – instructions for Ned to steal it, though Adam would never call it an instruction, or an order or anything like that. They were old friends, after all. It was a favour.

Before Adam had arrived in New York, Ned had already made a good name for himself among the city's thieves, but within a month Adam had outshone him like the sun to a candle. The man was brilliant, and as soon as Ned had joined his loose circle of thieves he'd happily taught Ned every trick he knew, a thousand clever things Ned would never have worked out on his own. He was generous, too: when Ned had confided in him his dreams of seeing London, Adam had given him the cash and contacts to start his own syndicate here – a gift, not loan, though of course he was entitled to a percentage of the profits. 

It was a modest amount, never a burden on Ned's finances, so when Adam asked him to steal a painting, or smuggle a vase or liberate some jewels, Ned was hardly going to complain. It wasn't his fault that the mail was slow and sometimes Ned had to drop everything to manage a job before the window of opportunity closed. Some of those pieces stayed stashed in his warehouse for weeks, pieces that would get him arrested instantly if they were discovered, until Adam decided where he wanted them sent and Ned arranged to smuggle them out, but that was just the nature of the business. Ned was happy to help, and Adam always returned the favour, often with a good bottle of American whiskey too. It was a solid arrangement.

It was just... inconvenient sometimes. 

He found the oblique instructions on the third page, buried in a chatty story about going on a business trip with a friend who had remarkably good ears (meaning he'd been working with a safe-cracker on a job out of town), then a brief aside about how he was grateful his savings had been safe in New York, and another about all the digging going on nearby for sewers (they'd robbed a bank together, by tunnelling in), and then a sharp turn into rambles about New York society, about a Mr Davies who just happened to have a sweetheart in London, perhaps Ned knew her? Miss Worthington, more rich than titled, who had a pair of ruby bracelets handed down from her great-grandmother. Davies was going to propose to her as soon as he returned, and the details of the ship he'd be on were written so smoothly into the story that anyone who might intercept the letter would miss it.

Why Adam wanted Miss Worthington robbed wasn't a mystery; he'd have arranged for a letter to be delivered to Davies within hours of the robbery to pressure him into giving up whatever it was Adam wanted. Ned's part in the game was small, and he didn't care how it turned out: either he'd smuggle the goods to Adam or, if Davies did as demanded, arrange to have them returned. 

Ned rubbed the bridge of his nose. This wouldn't be too hard a job, but he'd have to pull some of his best men off their assignments to tail Miss Worthington, to case her home and learn her habits so they could plan the theft. Briefly, Ned considered handing the entire job over to his team, but he'd never be able to face Adam if it went wrong. 

Sighing, Ned folded the letter to tuck it back into the envelope, ready to burn them both, when another bit of paper peeked out: A newspaper clipping. Ned slid it free and unfolded it.

 _Ladies Charitable Society Gala Raises Thousands_ , the headline read. Below was a picture of several women under a banner, captioned: _Mrs Matilda Sheppley, Mrs Phoebe Madill, and Mrs Lillian Wynn._

The artist's illustration wasn't exactly lifelike, but the figure on the left was clearly Mother, and for the first time in years, she wasn't wearing black. 

Ned smoothed the paper out under his fingers, trying to ignore the way his heart clenched. The article didn't say much about her, mostly describing the event with a few references to the social pedigrees of the ladies running it; Mother's list had grown very little since Ned left. There was nothing about of Father, of course, but another clipping Adam had sent in April had mentioned him in passing, and as long as it wasn't an obituary, Father was unlikely to ever make the papers. It was Mother who had been the social star of the family, and Mother who had taken it so hard when Ned disappeared. 

_Well,_ Ned thought, _at least she's moving on._ He took a heavy breath and let it out slowly. This was good. He wanted them to be happy, and if they couldn't be happy with a son instead of a daughter... It was better this way.

He'd keep the clipping. And he'd handle Adam's job himself. It was the least he could do.

Using the rope launcher to get to Ned's office window was old habit by now, so when Jacob arrived the next morning he didn't think twice about it, but when he climbed in, Ned looked annoyed. "What is wrong with the door?" he snapped.

"Nothing." He clapped his hands, rubbing them together. "Where do I sign?"

"You're enthusiastic," Ned muttered, yawning. He leaned over his desk towards the open doorway, to the desk facing away from them. "Rose, can you bring the registration forms?"

"Just a moment!"

Ned sat back and yawned again. "Sorry. I didn't get much sleep."

"Told you you should have stayed."

A bit of a smile tugged on Ned's mouth. "That would have helped. Maybe next time. Anyway, thank you for offering. Let's get this sorted."

Jacob had never met Ned's assistant; honestly, he'd forgotten he had one. She strode in, busy reading a sheaf of papers in her hands and a distracted frown on her face, and Jacob had just enough time to clock her – well dressed, bright colours, pretty in the same unremarkable way as a dozen other ladies he'd passed on the street this morning – before she caught sight of him. A flash of surprise shot across her face, then wary caution, then both vanished behind a bright, bland smile. Her eyes flickered to the unlatched window as she handed Ned the papers. "I see we have a visitor?"

"Mr Frye makes his own appointments," Ned said dryly. "Frye, this my assistant, Rose Lennox. Rose, meet Jacob Frye."

" _Sir_ Jacob Frye," he corrected, and made a fancy, exaggerated bow. Ned rolled his eyes and started reading. "Delighted to meet you."

She nodded back politely. "Sir Jacob."

" _Please_ just call him 'Frye'," said Ned. "It took weeks before he stopped crowing about the knighthood."

Jacob cheerfully ignored him. "And how did a lovely lady like yourself end up working with this dull chap?" he asked, grinning.

"He picked my pocket."

Jacob blinked and spun round to his friend. "Ned, you scoundrel!"

Without looking up, Ned replied, "She picked mine first."

Rose shrugged, amusement breaking through her neutral face. "I maintain that it was nearly the same time," she said lightly, and they shared a smile as Ned met her eyes over the top of the papers. Jacob felt rather left out.

"How, exactly, did that happen?"

They chuckled. "We were both attending a party," said Rose. "We were introduced, spoke for a moment, said nothing of interest, and a minute later I noticed my bracelet was missing."

"And my pocket watch was gone," said Ned. He put the sheaf down and sat back in his chair. "Long story short, we decided it would be better to coordinate than get each other caught, and we left that night with four hundred pounds worth of jewellery."

"Yes, it all turned out quite well," said Rose, "and it's been quite a profitable arrangement ever since. Speaking of, Mr Frye, if you would be so kind as to sign these documents, I'll have them filed with the Companies House this afternoon."

More _papers_. Jacob sighed and sat in a chair in front of the desk, and took the papers Ned pushed towards him. _I, the undersigned... blah blah something about shares... right of veto, right to sell..._ Boring. He knew Ned wouldn't cheat him. He skipped to the end and the blank spaces next to where Ned's signature was already filled out, and reached for a pen.

"Ned, about the Worthington job," Rose was saying quietly. "I checked: My friend does know her cousin. I could probably talk my way an invitation to tea at her home and get the layout for you."

"That would be _much_ easier than sneaking past her staff," said Ned, relieved. "But we only have eight days. You think you can do it that fast?"

"I'll try, but must we really jump through these hoops for him?"

Ned opened his mouth to say more, then glanced at Jacob as he added flourish to the last signature. "You're done? Already?" 

Jacob shrugged. Ned rolled his eyes and took the pages, careful of the wet ink. "You're lucky I take care of my friends," he said, and – with a quick glance through them, probably making sure everything was filled out – gave them to Rose. 

"I'll set off shortly," she said. Then, with a cheerful glint in her eye, she said, "Good day, Mr Frye. I'll see you at your next _appointment_."

Ned snorted. "Best give up now, Rose. You might as well put his name in every hour of the book." Rose looked a little bewildered, so Ned said, "Or how about this: As my partner and co-owner of Wrye & Co., Mr Frye can come in any time during business hours as long as I'm not meeting a client – so you can use the goddamn _door_ from now on."

Jacob laughed. Rose shook her head and left, and Ned picked up yet another paper from his desk and waved it at Jacob, who faltered. " _More_?"

"You'll like this better: It's the rest of the manufacturers Starrick was distributing for."

Jacob snatched it.

"Unfortunately," said Ned, "not all of them will be as easy to make a deal with as Beckinsale."

A glance at Ned's tidy summary made it clear why. "We don't know the company _names_?"

Ned shook his head. "Seems Starrick was pitting several competitors against each other by offering them both deals under different aliases. I'd be careful about putting that to paper too."

Jacob slid his fingers across the rows and columns, matching them up between the many blanks. "So we know this Mr Reed and Mr Harrison both own paper mills, but not what they're named or the addresses?"

"In most cases, not even what borough they're in. And judging by the expense of the shipping, some of them could be pretty far away." Ned took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, stifling another yawn. "I don't suppose you found Starrick's shipping records anywhere?"

Jacob shook his head. "He had ironworks as far south as Croydon. God knows about the rest of England." He folded the sheet into a pocket. "Some of my Rooks may have worked for them. I'll ask around. As for the rest" – he grinned – "I know just the girl."

Babylon Alley was oddly empty when Jacob wandered in. Clara was there alone, bundled up against the cold, holding an old kitchen knife and lining up her arm to throw it at a soggy pile of newspapers that were rather decently chopped up already. Curious, Jacob leaned against a wall and watched. Clara was focused, carefully measuring her angle; then she drew back her arm and hurled it at the papers with a furious shriek.

She missed. Not entirely, it clipped the edge of the bundles, but it was as far from the middle at it could get, and clearly worse than her earlier shots. As the knife clattered to the ground she swung her fists at the air and stamped her foot, shouting "Fine, then!" at it and spinning away, only to stop cold at the sight of him.

"You're dropping your arm too early," he said.

Clara drew herself up stiffly. "Mr Frye, this is _not_ a good time."

"Not for those papers, it isn't." He hopped down the last few steps and went to pick up the knife. It was ugly, rusty, and had awful balance. "Hmm, no wonder you can't throw straight." He tossed it aside, flipped a proper throwing knife out of his pouch, twirled it in his fingers for a moment, then handed it to her. "Try this. And keep your arm up."

Clara turned the knife over in her hands for a moment, careful of the edges, studying its odd swirled shape. When her curiosity was satisfied, she lined herself up again and raised her arm above her head–

"You want everyone to see what you're about to do? Hold it close to you, bend your elbow so your hand is near your chin," said Jacob, demonstrating. "Then throw it." 

Clara frowned sceptically as she copied him, and straightened up immediately. "How am I supposed to throw it hard enough like that?"

"It's not a hammer," scoffed Jacob. "That's why they're sharp. Flick your wrist. And keep your arm straight until _after_ you let go."

She frowned at him a few moments longer, eyes narrow, then glanced around to check that they were alone. She lined herself up to the newspapers again, elbow bent. "This feels wrong," she complained.

"Who's the expert? You're standing too straight. Point your shoulder at your target. And bend your knees a little; when you're straight you're stiff."

Grumbling, she adjusted her feet, bent her elbow, and threw.

It wasn't bad. The knife didn't quite hit point-first, so it fell to the floor instead of staying buried in the target, but it was much closer to the middle. Clara lit up, punching her fist in the air and bouncing a little on the spot. "It worked!" she cried, "It worked! Oh – your knife." She hopped over to pick it up and brought it back to Jacob. "Thank you."

He shrugged. "Keep it."

Her bright smile flickered, and she hesitated. "I'm sure you didn't come here to give me a knife throwing lesson, Mr Frye," she said after a moment. "What do you need?"

Jacob rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out a list of names Ned had given him. "I need to find these men. They all own or at least manage a factory, but we don't know which."

Clara scanned the list. "I assume these are the goods they produce?" she asked, pointing to a column. Jacob nodded.

"We hope they're all somewhere in London, but knowing which ones aren't will help too. How long will you need?"

Her lips thinned into a white line as she looked up and down the list. "At least a week," she said at last, quietly. "Maybe two."

Jacob blinked. "Your kids usually only need a few days."

"In case you hadn't noticed, Mr Frye, it's _winter_. Most of the children are too busy trying to find a place to stay warm to run your errands for you!"

Startled, Jacob held up his hands in surrender. "All right, two weeks."

Clara opened her mouth, closed it, then slumped, looking small and tired. She considered the throwing knife in her hand, then drew herself up and said, more formally than usual: "Mr Frye, it occurs to me that, in our original agreement with you and your sister, we never promised to provide you with intelligence forever. It's been nearly a year since you last liberated any children from a factory."

He frowned and folded his arms. "Because there aren't any children still working in them, and the foremen of the ones we didn't take over know we're watching."

"Nevertheless, I think it's time we negotiate a renewal of services."

Jacob threw his hands up. "All right, fine. What do you want?"

Clara raised her chin. "The children of London suffer terribly in winter. The few places that offer proper shelter are overcrowded by adults, and the rest let in so much snow and wind that it's little better than sleeping on the streets. In return for intelligence, I want you to ensure that there is enough shelter for everyone to survive the cold."

Jacob felt his eyebrows hit his hairline. "Another 'small favour'?!" he cried. "You want me to repair the _entire city_?"

"No, just Whitechapel, Lambeth, and parts of Southwark."

That... _Christ_. Jacob dragged his palm down his face. "Even if I agreed, what makes you think I could manage that?"

She put her hands on her hips, chin high. "You mean you don't _want_ to keep the children of London from freezing in their sleep while you eat well by a fire? Did you know several of the children you saved are already dead from frostbite and hunger? I predict dozens more will die this winter if their homes aren't repaired. The elderly too."

He groaned. "Of course I want to help, but you're asking me to rebuild dozens of neighbourhoods."

"You have money," said Clara.

"Not that much money."

She folded her arms and looked pointedly at his heavy embroidered overcoat, his thick scarf, his gold-handled kukri. And Jacob, to his discomfort, took a moment to really look at her clothes: thin, at least four layers of ragged cloth trying to thicken it, sleeves too short, torn stockings, and thin-soled shoes. He sighed.

"All right."

Clara blinked. "Pardon?"

"Deal," said Jacob. God knows how he'd manage it, the money from Wrye & Co. wouldn't start coming in for weeks, and he'd probably need months of it just to make a dent. How much did timber cost, anyway? He could steal a lot, but not all: Ned controlled a lot of the imports, and Ned would only give him so much of a discount. How much would each house need? And carpenters, what did they charge? And the windows, dammit, glass was expensive. Maybe they could board them up instead for now...

One thing was sure: he wouldn't be adding any more cars to the train anytime soon.

Clara was still looking startled. "You mean you'll do it?"

"Didn't I just say that? Come on," he said, and strode up the steps out of the alley. Clara paused, then hurried to catch up.

"Where are we going?"

"To get you some decent clothes." Agnes' sister Jenny worked at a seamstress shop in Lambeth, and Jacob usually went to them to have his outfits repaired or order more Rook uniforms. She'd make time for them.

Clara was scrambling to keep up, and when they reached the main road and he slowed down to signal a carriage, she planted herself in front of him, arms folded. "I cannot accept charity while other children have nothing."

 _God spare me._ "We'll see about getting things for them later," Jacob said. He opened the carriage door and waited, looking at her pointedly. Clara hesitated, shivering in the biting wind that was funnelled down the wide street. Then she looked around quickly, guiltily, and darted in. Jacob gave the driver the address and followed. 

It was warmer inside, even with no curtains on the glass. The carriage wasn't plush, but the doors fit neatly in the frame and all the windows were intact. Jacob didn't usually notice the cold very much – or the heat, or the rain, or anything except to be aware of whether he'd leave tracks or if the light would blind enemies. Father, and Granny before him, had made him and Evie train in every sort of weather, but that was _training_ , they were always moving, and they'd always had warm beds at night. Looking at Clara sitting across from him, then out at the shoddy buildings of Whitechapel, at the ragged people trudging through the streets–

He'd find a way. Somehow. No use saving the city from Templars if they let half the people die anyway. The Council would have to agree with that.

The carriage trotted along and the view became nicer as they passed through central London, where new coats and fur wraps dotted the streets. Hmm, he could always steal from the wealthy, they had plenty...

"Mr Frye, I have a confession to make."

He turned, startled out of his thoughts. "Hmm?"

"A confession," repeated Clara. She looked miserable, but straightened up to deliver her words eye-to-eye. "Many of the children are no longer following my leadership. Two of the younger boys usurped me and have taken most of my best spies with them. I _will_ win them all back, but until then I have only a few children I can rely on. I am confident I can get your information, but I will need extra time."

She was sitting tall but her jaw was clenched, lip trembling under the pressure, and her eyes looked terrifyingly wet. Jacob had _no idea_ how to handle it if she cried. "Two weeks is fine! I can wait."

Her voice cracked: "You're not going to ask why they won't follow me?"

Jacob hesitated. He had the feeling there was no winning here. Clara was – what? fourteen now? What had Evie been like when they were fourteen? She'd cried too, but mostly when she was angry, and she'd always stormed off straight away to be alone. Mostly he remembered a lot of shouting and things being thrown at him. At least this time he was taller. Carefully, he asked, "So... why won't they follow you?"

"They say I'm too _old_! I'm too tall and now they think I'm just another grown-up trying to order them about!"

"But you're not a grown-up."

" _I know that!_ "

Jacob held up his hands in surrender. Clara took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry, Mr Frye, that was unprofessional."

Cautiously, he shrugged, and prayed that the carriage would get them there soon. "It's... all right?"

"It's _not_ all right, I held back vital information during our negotiations. You have every right to cancel our arrangement entirely."

This – this he could deal with. He shook his head and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "No. I need your help. You still know this city a hundred times better than I do, and I know you'll be discreet. You're a professional," he added honestly, and she straightened. "Besides, you're right: People shouldn't be freezing to death in hovels while the rich get fat. I can't promise to rebuild entire _boroughs_ ," he said, wincing, "but I'll do what I can."

Solemnly, Clara nodded. "Nor can I promise to get all the information you need, timely or otherwise, but I'll do what I can."

Jacob straightened and offered his hand, arm straight. "Deal."

They shook on it.

Finally looking happy, Clara relaxed in her seat and watched the buildings roll by. Jacob's thoughts wandered back to what he might be able to do to help, now and when Starrick's money started coming in, and was reeling again at the scale of the problem when a thought occurred to him. A possibility. A suspicion. If he was right, it was shrewd, and devious, and very like Clara.

"There's something I don't quite understand," he said lightly. "If you knew you might not be able to hold up your end of the deal, why renegotiate now? And why ask for something so extravagant?"

He gave her a moment to think, to start putting together an answer, and then, just before she opened her mouth, said, "Unless you never expected me to accept."

Clara's face went carefully blank. 

Jacob smiled, smug and triumphant. "But if _I_ turned _you_ down, you'd have had time to win back control of the children without me ever knowing, and then you'd have something to bargain with again."

She lifted her chin, the image of dignity, but red was rising in her cheeks to betray it. "I'd hoped such a Herculean task would prompt you to negotiate, and then I planned offer you more reasonable terms."

"Like what? Capturing the moon?"

"Food and blankets for the winter," she said. "Then I was going to present them to the children and win back their loyalty, and gather your intelligence as usual."

"Ha!" cried Jacob, delighted. "Very clever, Clara, very clever! You could give Evie a run for her money."

Clara tried to keep her face blank, but her shoulders rolled back with pride. "As it happens, Mr Frye, you _did_ accept my terms, so any relief you bring from the cold from now on will, technically, be thanks to me, and I intend make sure they all know it."

Jacob, still chuckling, shook his head, impressed. "You know what, forget that, you should meet Ned; you two would probably take over the empire in a week."

"Ned?"

"Ned Wynert, he's a friend of mine."

She thought for a moment. "Wynert Shipping. Southwark, two blocks from Waterloo station. Mostly thieves and smugglers. They never hurt children."

"See? You can handle all this on your own. You never forget anything."

She smiled again, pleased, and settled back in her seat.

Soon after, the carriage slowed, and from outside the driver called, "We're 'ere, gov."

Jacob climbed out and paid his man a few pence, and turned to find Clara staring at the tailor's tidy shop front. "I thought you meant cast-offs from your Rooks," she said, something like horror on her face. "I can't accept this!"

"I can't have my best informant freezing to death," said Jacob, but Clara shook her head hard. "Come on, when's the last time you had something new?"

From the hungry look on her face, the answer was probably never, but still she shook her head. "I can't pay you back for this, therefore I can't accept."

"That's why it's called a _gift_ ," said Jacob, and rather than argue he took hold of her shoulders and walked her in ahead of him, right up to the tables where Jenny MacBean was hemming a silk gown.

"Mr Frye! So good to see you," she said, and the senior seamstress, Mrs Lewis, came out from the back room. 

"Mr Frye, how can we help you today?" she asked, and looked to Clara. "Is this your... daughter?"

Jacob blanched. "No! This is Clara. She needs something warm for winter. New boots, too."

"Really, Mr Frye, there's _no_ need–"

"Don't listen to anything she says."

Jenny and Mrs Lewis smiled – Mrs Lewis was doing a little better at hiding hers – and briskly swept Clara up for a fitting. "I'm sure we can find something inexpensive enough to make you comfortable," said Mrs Lewis. "Here, these are some nice, solid wools. Are there any colours you fancy?"

She patted the ends of three large bolts, thick fabrics with soft lining and a bit of embroidery, nothing special as clothes went, but at the sight of them, Clara burst into tears.

Swifter than dodging bullets, Jacob caught the Jenny by the elbow, dropped enough money into her hands to kit Clara out for the next two winters, and fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jacob didn't get it quite right: Clara was born in February of 1856 and had just turned 12 when the Fryes arrived at the start of the game in 1868. This chapter is in December of 1869, so she'll turn 14 in a month or two.


	4. A London Winter Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's (just after) Christmas, Ned is (sort of) being a Scrooge, and Jacob is (definitely not) having that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to assume you all know the basic plot of _[A Christmas Carol](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Christmas_Carol)_ , and if not, there's the link. The ~100 words I've quoted from it are out of [this copy at Project Gutenberg](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/46/46-h/46-h.htm). It was published in 1843.
> 
> I _think_ Jacob's eyes are green. Anyone know for sure? Evie's are definitely blue but his seem darker, and I can't find a good pic.
> 
> Regarding the train dining car, if you ever took Jacob or Evie into one of the red passenger trains, you'll have seen what I'm picturing: rows of small tables on either side of the aisle with maybe four chairs at each.

It wasn't Christmas, to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that. Christmas had been and gone three days ago and Ned's had been just fine, thanks. He'd shut up shop early on Christmas Eve, gifted everyone in his little team of thieves with a bonus, and even said a few honest, awkward words of thanks before sending them home to be merry with their families. He'd treated himself to an excellent dinner at a very nice restaurant in the Strand, cleanly picked the pocket of the rudest lord in the the place, and spent the rest of the evening – and all of Christmas Day – comfortably at home by the fire, reading and practicing with his safes, lazy and free of his itchy bandages, just the way he liked it.

Well. He would have liked to have dinner with Rose, but she was making nice with her family in Hertford and wouldn't be back for another week – unless she and her mother had a row again. Ned had kept an ear out for her outraged knock, and was sorry to admit he'd been hoping for it, but that wasn't fair: At least one of them should be able to spend time with their family, even if it meant smiles were put on all round while everyone pretended they weren't a shocking embarrassment to the family name. No doubt, when Rose got back, they'd spend an evening at her flat angrily commiserating about the unfairness of the world – it was starting to become a tradition – but for now, at least, she was (probably) happy.

And, well, he'd sort of expected Jacob to drop by. No, not expected – that was presumptuous. Jacob was his business partner and his friend, but Jacob had a lot of friends; Ned could hardly expect special treatment. It was odd that Jacob hadn't been by the office at all this week, but then, maybe he was down again over missing his sister, and if so, it would be pretty damn petulant of Ned to be put out over Jacob not asking about his Christmas plans.

Besides, he liked being alone.

So here he was, halfway between Christmas and New Year, back at work so no one else had to be, though there wasn't that much to do: the usual smuggling runs were running smoothly, the one-off jobs for special clients were all either dealt with or planned out and waiting for their window of opportunity, and the legitimate businesses – more and more of which was now through Wrye & Co. – were carrying on as normal.

Mostly Ned was getting ahead on the dull paperwork that kept Wynert Shipping safe: doctored accounts, forged papers and fabricated letters that might never be seen, but if they were it would be by frustrated policemen who were still failing to make a case against him. Important, but so dull that he'd been getting up for a walk every half-hour just to keep from making mistakes. The Rook guards patrolling the warehouse were the only souls around, and Ned had made sure they knew they were welcome to the kettle and tea inside, and stopped to chat with them for a while before trudging back upstairs, tightening his scarf, and getting on with it.

The soft scrape of his office window, when it came, was a surprise, and both joy and anger sprang up in Ned's chest, racing each other to his mouth. As usual, and to his chagrin, anger got there first. "I told you to use the door, Frye."

Jacob's wet boots thumped on the floor and he grinned as he shut the window. "Cheery as usual, I see."

"What do you want?"

A frown flickered across his face, and he didn't take his usual seat, hovering beside the desk. "You all right?"

Ned sighed, his stupid empty anger deflating into weariness. "Yes, sorry, I'm fine. What do you need?"

Jacob pulled his chair up to the side of the desk, a corner away from Ned, close enough to paw through the papers if he wanted. "Who says I need something? Maybe I just wanted to see my friend."

Part of Ned felt warmed by that, and he knew he'd be happier accepting Jacob at his word, but the sceptic in him said, "So this is purely social. You don't want _anything_."

Jacob looked up. "Well... Yes, one thing. But I've been meaning to come by anyway," he added earnestly. "I've been busy."

"Of course you have. We all have." Ned sank against the back of his chair. "What is it?"

Jacob was quiet for a moment – a lifetime in the usual speed of a Jacob Frye conversation – with a look on his face somewhere between thoughtful and soft. Ned felt uncomfortably bare under it. But what he finally said was, "How much timber do you have left in London?"

That... All right, that was unexpected, but as Ned had just been resorting to the dull depths of inventory for something useful to do, he didn't have to check his papers to say: "Five wagonloads in storage or transit and two cars' worth on my cargo train in the rail yard. Why?"

"I want to buy it," he said, and Ned blinked.

"What, all of it?"

Jacob shrugged. "I already stole every other stockpile I could get away with in the central boroughs."

Oh. Oh, _Jacob_. Ned covered his eyes, shaking his head as a smile fought its way to his cheeks, and through two fingers he could see Jacob's grin growing as he watched. "Well," Ned said after a long moment, taking a breath to steady his face, "that explains the spike in demand." He straightened up, feeling better, and considered his partner. "And you want all that's left?"

"I wouldn't steal from _you_. But, er, yes." He scratched his neck. "We used up the lot faster than I thought, and if I rob the sawmills of all the rest their stock we'll get caught. I even _bought_ some just to cover up the thefts," he said, disgusted.

So he wasn't deliberately hoarding it to drive the price up. Interesting. "You can have what's there, and I've got more shipments coming in next week. I'll give you five percent off the new price."

"Oh, come on, _Ned_ ," he whined, and he leaned in over the desk, pinning Ned with those big green eyes, so warm and sincere and puppyishly endearing that it caught Ned like a spider web. "I'm your _partner_ ," he wheedled. "Ten percent."

Ned shook himself out of it. "Eight. And you're the one who drove up prices."

Making a face, Jacob slumped in his chair and grumbled, "All right, all right. Just wait till our company has a sawmill signed on."

"You'd still have to pay for my half," said Ned. He sat back too, making space between them; the cool air made it easier to think. "So what do you need all this timber for anyway? Other than making every construction manager in the city panic."

Jacob opened his mouth– then stopped and smiled, impish. "Do you really want to know?"

A frown crept across Ned's brow. "I just asked, so yes."

"Then you'll have to come and see for yourself," Jacob declared, standing. He folded his arms in challenge. "Or would you really rather _work_ all day?"

Ned manfully kept from rolling his eyes. "I'd rather keep my business running, and this is all very important," he lied. "Why can't you just tell me?"

"Where's the fun in that? Besides, a whole afternoon with the pleasure of my company? I bet I can cheer you up."

Scepticism reared its head again. "You want to spend your time cheering me up," he repeated, dry as desert sand.

"Of course. You think I'd leave you like this?"

Honestly, until this moment, he hadn't thought about it. People who genuinely cared about his happiness were, in his experience, the exception, but it figured that Jacob would be one of them.

Ned bit his cheek, arguing with himself. His petty sulking was his problem, not Jacob's, and he should get over it on his own, and he _did_ have work to do... But it could wait.

He wrestled with himself for a few moments more, then said, "All right, I'm curious. Give me a minute to lock up – and you're _not_ going out the window," he added.

The look on Jacob's face would, on anyone other than a grown man, be called a pout.

They took a carriage. Jacob drove, and flatly refused to say where they were going. He just grinned at every sideways pry for information, teased Ned for being impatient, and made such a show of changing the subject to the most boring things imaginable that Ned had to smile. So he let Jacob have his suspense and enjoyed the merriment that shone off his friend like sunlight.

(Besides, they were clearly heading for Whitechapel.)

Along the way Jacob peppered him with questions. Some were normal, common small talk, others were ones Ned had never been asked, and could barely answer because he'd never had to invent that kind of detail for his boyhood. He filled in what he could with what he'd wished he'd been allowed to do, but Jacob seemed so genuinely interested that Ned felt bad for lying, and as soon as he could he turned the questions back around.

He was glad he did. Jacob chattered happily all the way past St. Paul's about growing up with their grandmother in Wales, about how Granny Jones had kept horses and taught them to ride, how they'd gone back to visit her every winter till she passed, and how his Welsh was _terrible_ , but still better than Evie's.

Eventually they stopped near a curio shop, startling the new proprietor, who looked ready to greet Jacob until he caught sight of Ned, then disappeared inside without a word. Jacob rolled his eyes at the man's back and led Ned down the path next to the shop, into the twisting alleys.

Wherever they were going, they weren't taking the direct route, and Jacob didn't seem to be in any hurry, cheerfully ignoring the muddy snow that squelched under their feet. He'd stopped talking, which was odd, and kept looking up and waving to residents who seemed strangely happy to see him, and then to Ned, waiting for him to... something. Ned narrowed his eyes and paid attention.

It had been a while since he'd been in this part of Whitechapel. The Fryes had ousted the Blighters from it before Ned ever met them – that was the first he'd heard of them, in fact – and aside from tracking cargo runs passing through the area, he hadn't had reason to visit since.

So it took a few minutes for him to realise that the worn, run-down buildings of Whitechapel were looking... still awful, but better than before. There wasn't a single broken window that he could see: some clearly had been, and a few still had piles of broken glass in front of them, but they were swept up piles, waiting to be taken away, and the windows were boarded up tightly. Not _tidily_ , the boards had been nailed in at angles, and in several places left such large wedges that another piece of wood had been nailed over the gaps, but it would keep the wind out.

The walls were patched too, just as shoddily and just as well meant. Some of the new planks had split at the edges where nails had been hammered in too close, and a second nail, further in, had to be added to do the work. Shutters were straighter, fewer doors were falling out of their frames, and those that were had bits of sawed-up planks jammed into the gaps to prop them up. It was a spectacular waste of wood, but the further they went, the neater the work became, until it almost looked professional.

Almost.

...No, it was still obviously amateur, but the quality mattered less than the sheer scale of it. If the winding walk they had taken was a good sample, repairs had been made to a good fifty houses, at least.

Jacob was grinning ear to ear as he watched Ned realise what he was seeing, and when Ned shook his head and said, "Wow. Frye, I'm impressed," Jacob _beamed_.

"Come on, you've got to see this," he said, and sprang ahead through an archway towards what had once been the Blighters' Spitalfields stronghold. Ned followed at a normal pace.

The old buildings in the inner ring of this block had been, to Ned's memory, the worst wrecks in the place, but now they were a hive of activity. Rooks were everywhere: Half a dozen of them were at makeshift tables, sawing lengths of wood from a half-empty wagon nearby, while others were crawling on walls and roofs like ants, holding on precariously as they hammered, or hanging out windows gripping their friends' belts to keep them from falling. Some, taking a break, were huddled around fires or nipping inside to accept a cup of tea from the residents. Yet more were walking back and forth to the saw men, papers in hand and measuring the wood with yardsticks, gathering up lots all of a rough length and carrying them to whoever that needed it, churning up mud as they went. Some were going out to the next block, and Ned would bet a train there were another fifty men doing the same thing over there.

The clamour was deafening.

Jacob was walking backwards, arms spread and showing off his work. "Well? What do you think?"

What Ned was thinking was that he was a little bit awed by the speed at which this had been organised – there was no way Jacob wouldn't have mentioned it if this was in the works last week – but what he said was, "I guess you've got no need to hire a construction crew when you've got the biggest gang in town. I take it you pay them the usual bonus for a day's work?"

That earned Ned rolled eyes, and he was probably in for a few new jibes about how he never stopped working, but Jacob answered anyway: "Most of them. Some volunteered: these are their homes, they're happy to do the work if it keeps their families warm. I, er..." he scratched his neck sheepishly. "I didn't realise how many there would be. Three _hundred_ turned up the first morning! Bill would've fainted if we had to pay all of them."

Ned laughed. "I can imagine. What did you do with them all? Hardly enough space here for that many to work without hitting each other."

Jacob shrugged, leading them in tight zigzags around the workers; Ned hopped to avoid dropped nails and broken glass, trying to keep his shoes out of the puddles that Jacob's boots were unconcerned with. "Sent some to get tools and nails or cart the timber, sent the rest around town to figure out what homes need fixing the most," he answered. "The worst of it's here. Davey's got a crew in the south end of the borough, Maggie's starting down in Lambeth–" A frazzled-looking man in a brown coat stumbled into Jacob and hurried past without a word. Jacob nodded at his back and said, "We hired some carpenters too."

The carpenter was scrambling towards a group of Rooks who were assembling something, crying out instructions that could barely be heard. He took the wood out of their hands to do something to it himself, slowly and carefully, smiled for a moment and handed it back to the men to continue – then spotted something else across the yard and dashed off again.

Jacob watched him go. "I should probably get him an assistant." He shrugged and waved Ned after him. "Come on, I want to show you something."

He led the way back through to a narrow street and a completely unremarkable house that must have been 'fixed' before anyone had had any practice. Jacob was practically thrumming with excitement about whatever it was he had to show off, and Ned, smiling back at him, quietly decided it had been worth coming all this way just to see that.

The house had patches on two walls, all but one window boarded up, and the door was made entirely of new wood. It was the door Jacob stopped at – Ned nearly stumbled into him before realising they weren't going in – and he stood back on the doorstep so Ned could get a good look. "I did it myself."

Ned's eyebrows shot up. "You did? This?"

He nodded brightly and slid a finger across a line of mostly straight nails at his chin height. "There's another plank behind there these are nailed to, and another here," he tapped another nail-line near their shins. He paused. "Well, the carpenter hung it. But I put it together."

A big smile pulled at Ned's cheeks, and he let it. "It looks good," he said. "Solid. Did you do those too?" He nodded at the mended shutters, but Jacob shook his head.

"The Rooks need the work. I just wanted to try."

Ned tucked his hands in his pockets looked around – really looked – at the buildings, the old windows, the chimney stacks and the smoke puffing out of them. He couldn't count how many people lived in these places, neither how many should be there nor how many were actually crammed in and living in each others' pockets. He knew he'd been lucky to always have money to spare when it came to a warm bed and a watertight roof, so he wouldn't insult them by pretending to know what it was like to live here, but in his life there had been people who had been more generous to him than he deserved – one was standing right here – and he knew how it felt to suddenly be handed what you'd been desperately praying for. He wondered if Jacob did.

"All right," he said after a long moment. "Ten percent off the new price."

It took Jacob a moment to remember, and then he grinned. "Twenty?"

The man was _shameless_ and it shouldn't be this charming. Ned chuckled, but he had to shake his head. "I can't hide that big a loss in the account books if Scotland Yard tries to audit me again. Speaking of, you know that sawmill you wanted?"

Jacob looked puzzled. "Yes...?"

"As of now, we have one, and we bought a train's worth of timber from them through Wrye & Co. last week. Make up a name. If the police try and seize all this as stolen, they won't be able to prove it. I'll need an hour or so to make the paper trail, you'll just need to sign it."

The huge smile that broke out on Jacob's face was blinding. For a moment he looked ready to leap across the space to Ned and hug him, and it was almost disappointing when he didn't. "You're the _best_ , Ned."

Ned was starting to feel very, very warm in this coat. "It's nothing," he said, scuffing his toe. "I've got to say, I never took you for a philanthropist. Why _are_ you doing all this? It's a good thing to do," he added quickly when Jacob's smile faltered. "Admirable. I wish more more men would put their money to good use. But what made you decide to do it now?"

"Ah," said Jacob. He shrugged lazily. "I was tricked."

He seemed far too cheerful about it. "Want to tell me anything _less_ specific?"

That got a laugh, and Jacob explained, "The urchins who spy for me, their leader, Clara; she 'renegotiated our agreement', and next thing I know, I've promised to house all the poor in the city."

Ned chuckled. "She played you? I'm impressed."

Jacob waved it off, clearly not bitter. "She was right, kids shouldn't be freezing to death, but yes, quite clever, that one. Reminds me of you."

The way he said it sounded like the highest of compliments, and Ned felt the warmth rush through his cheeks. He looked straight ahead and hoped his scarf would hide it. "I think I'd like to meet this girl."

Without a pause, Jacob turned and took off towards another alley. "Come on then."

It took some asking around, and some of the children Jacob stopped refused to answer, but they found this Clara in a dingy underpass between two brick buildings, lecturing three boys sharing a blanket and a begging bowl. She stuck out a bit, in a too-big wool dress that was cut to fit a grown woman, hemmed and tucked so she could grow into it, and was just a little too new for Whitechapel, though her plain brown coat hid most of it. "There's a Rook house in Spitalfields that will be ready to sleep in tonight," she was telling them. "Take your friends there. Take all your blankets and stay there till the thaw. Go _immediately_ , before the adults get there."

"I'd listen to her if I were you," Jacob said as they walked up behind her. "She's usually right."

Clara turned, unimpressed, but the boys' eyes lit up at the sight of Jacob, though whether it was his face or his weapon collection, Ned wasn't sure. They scrambled to their feet – bare feet, all of them – and when Clara gave them directions again, they listened, and went off on her command. One tried to bump into Jacob's purse on their way past – clumsy, clumsy attempt, that – but he side-stepped it with the ease of long practice.

"You're looking very warm there, Clara," Jacob said with a cheeky smile when they were gone. She rolled her eyes.

"Yes, Mr Frye, as I have told you no less than seven times these past few weeks, I am quite comfortable and grateful for the gift. I would appreciate not having to say it an eighth time."

Jacob chuckled. "Clara, meet Ned Wynert. Ned, Miss Clara O'Dea. She's turned her urchins into the best spy network in the city."

She seemed to grow an inch as he said it. Ned held out his hand. "Miss O'Dea, thrilled to meet you."

She shook it; her gloves were nearly as nice as Ned's own. Oh, of course – Jacob had bought them too. "A pleasure," she said.

"Pleasure's all mine. The information you've gotten us has been invaluable. I might have some more work for you, if you're interested."

Her eyes widened a fraction and flickered to Jacob, but she replied, "I'm afraid my schedule is quite full at the moment, Mr Wynert. I will keep your offer in mind for the future."

It was as slick a turn-down as Ned had seen, and on the tip of his tongue was a teasing jab that Jacob could stand to learn from her, but that would be an insult to her professionalism, so he kept his face straight and said, "Consider my door open."

Clara nodded and turned to Jacob. "Mr Frye, I want to propose a new bargain."

He groaned. "Again? Isn't this enough?" He jerked a thumb back towards the faint noise of hammers.

"Not instead of; in addition to. I want you to teach me to fight like you do, so I can protect the children from vile adults. In exchange, I personally and any children who follow me will continue to work for you indefinitely; no re-negotiations."

Jacob looked surprised, and his eyes narrowed a fraction. "What happened?"

"Nothing unusual," she said smoothly. "Unfortunately. Threats and violence from adults isn't uncommon, especially drunks."

Jacob's frown deepened, puzzled now, and Ned would wager on that alone that it wasn't Clara's usual fare to respond to violence with violence. If she were Ned's associate he'd have pressed for more details – he knew, if nothing else, exactly how scary it was for a young woman to be alone on the street at night, leered at by drunks – but he wasn't part of this, so he kept quiet.

"Forever's a long time, Clara," Jacob said at last. "Even the Rooks don't promise that."

"This is important."

Jacob considered her a moment longer, and maybe he made the same guesses as Ned had, maybe not, but he didn't ask: he nodded and took a step back, making some space in the narrow alley. "Show me what you know. Hit me." He tapped his middle with both palms. "Your best punch."

If Clara was startled by the suddenness, she didn't show it. She stepped up, faced him squarely, then charged forward two short steps and rammed her knuckles into him. Jacob absorbed it easily.

"Good, but you'll never start so far away, except maybe the first blow. Stand with your feet a bit further apart" – he nudged her ankles with his toe till she shifted – "and move your thumb; if you let the tip of it stick out past your knuckles it'll hit first and get broken. Tuck it under. No, not inside–"

He folded her thumb into a safer position under the knuckles. "Try again. Don't aim for me, aim for something behind me. Punch like you're going through me."

She tried, and Ned couldn't tell if it was any better, Jacob wasn't even winded, but it must have been enough for an assessment because the next thing he said was: "Duck."

Clara didn't react quickly enough so the first of Jacob's swings – light, obviously no power in them, and far slower than a real brawl – caught her in the side of the head, but it was well under control and only nudged her sideways. She quickly ducked under the second, jerked her head backwards to avoid the third – almost hitting the brick wall behind her – then swung wildly in his direction, nearly stumbling face-first to the ground when he side-stepped, and was suddenly pummelled by two light blows as Jacob crowded her against the wall.

It was, Ned thought, not his style in the slightest, all this prodding without talking. Of all things, it reminded Ned of his dance lessons, month after month of a tutor walking him through the same steps, tweaking his movements until they were acceptable. When Rose had cajoled him into teaching her some American dances, Ned had found himself mimicking his tutor's habits: it was the only way he knew how to explain the steps. Jacob and Evie must have done this for years to be as good as they were.

It would take Clara just as long. Ned wondered if his friend had the patience.

A moment after cornering Clara Jacob stepped back, studying her, and Clara straightened her coat, frustration written all over her face.

"Was that _necessary_?"

Jacob looked up, startled. "That was good! That was a good start."

"So you'll teach me?"

"Aren't I already?" he said. "Now, you're small, and you'll always be smaller than someone," he said, arranging her arms into a rough shield in front of her chest and face, "so don't try to overpower them. Use their strength against them. When you nearly fell just there? Do that to them. Make them miss you and trip them. Now, I'll be a brute..."

Obviously this was going to take a while, and Ned was starting to feel like an intruder. He waited and watched for a few more minutes, and Jacob glanced his way several times as he demonstrated, looking happy, so clearly Ned was welcome, but he wasn't needed, so he backed away and turned to go. "I'll be off now."

There was a sudden shuffling sound from behind him, then Jacob's light footsteps as he hurried to catch up. "Ned, wait!"

He did, he'd barely gotten a few steps away anyway, and they were just far enough to not be heard when Jacob said, "You're going?"

Ned didn't know how to say "obviously" without being rude. Usually he'd be sarcastic, but Jacob looked unhappy now, and that made a muddy mess of Ned's feelings, so his head took over. "You don't need me here," he said; there was no excuse he could make to stay. "Besides, I've got a timber purchase to forge for you."

Jacob looked back at Clara, who was waiting patiently, and glanced at the handful of other kids who were creeping in to watch. He thought for a moment, then called over his shoulder: "Clara, have you seen the fights at the clubs?"

Clara frowned. "Sometimes, briefly, when passing through the area," she replied. "Why?"

"You can learn a lot watching them. Fights are in the Strand today. Ned, want to join us?"

He wasn't subtle, and Ned didn't know what to make of that except that so plainly being wanted for his company felt _good_ , warm like a purring cat. He was smiling before he realised it. "Sure, that sounds fun," he said. "I'll meet you there in... two hours?"

Jacob's sunshine smile broke out again, and it was silly but Ned was proud to be the one who had put it there. "Excellent! See you then."

Ned tipped his hat – "Miss O'Dea, lovely to meet you." – and made his way out of the alley. When he rounded a corner and glanced back, Jacob had only just turned back to Clara.

Generally, Ned avoided fight clubs. It wasn't that he disliked them, or objected to them, or couldn't make the time, or even that he was usually alone and a spectator sport like that was little fun without company. It was stupider than that, and he could barely admit it to himself: The fighters were usually shirtless, and he probably shouldn't enjoy the sight as much as he did.

The club in the Strand was busy for a winter afternoon, which was to say there were maybe two dozen cheering people scattered around the ring, and half as many again having beers at the tables. It wasn't hard to spot Jacob and Clara sitting at the top of the stands on the far side: Jacob was pointing and gesturing as he talked, and Clara was watching intently.

When Jacob spotted him, he grinned and waved his arm as high as he could, as though Ned could possibly miss him.

"Good seats," Ned said as he climbed up to join them, and nodded his greetings to Clara. He sat down on Jacob's other side and pulled the papers from his pocket. "Sign these."

Jacob took the offered pen and flipped straight to the end. "You're fantastic, Ned."

"And you really should read things first," Ned replied lightly. "I'll have you know you just signed away your rights to Wrye & Co., your train, your knighthood, and that gauntlet you love so much."

"As long as you didn't take my hats, we're still friends."

Ned laughed.

Clara peered around Jacob's big shoulders and pointed at the papers. "May I see those?" she asked. Jacob glanced at Ned, who shrugged.

"It's just a shipping order."

"Dated last week," she noticed, and "hmmm"d as she read through the rest. Jacob looked down at her with pride written all over his face. After a minute, she folded the pages back up and handed them to Ned. "Thank you, that was very informative."

Ned raised his eyebrows. "Do I have to be worried about how much you know?"

"It's my business to know things, Mr Wynert, but as I work for Mr Frye, it's in my best interests to use that knowledge to help you."

A crash and the crowd's loud "Ooooo!" interrupted, and Jacob, the only one who had been keeping even one eye on the ring, leapt to his feet to cheer. The last man standing in the ring saw him, and loosely saluted with one hand before turning to climb out. Some of the audience saw it and obviously recognised Jacob: they cheered and called out, "Frye!" "Frye's fighting?" "Good to see you, gov!" "FRYE!"

Jacob, crowd pleaser that he was, waved back, enjoying the attention, but shook his head at their pleas and sat back down, still grinning.

"So," said Ned. "I take it you're a regular?"

He shrugged, leaning forward on his elbows to watch the next fighters climb in. "I come by now and then."

"Mr Topping called him the club champion when we arrived," Clara corrected. "Isn't that right, Mr Frye?"

"Well... Evie was first," he admitted. "We had the borough titles split between us till she left."

Clara's eyes widened. "I didn't know that! Miss Frye defeated these men? All at once?"

Jacob grinned. "Not _these_ men. These ones can still walk."

The bell rang for the next round. Clara spun round to watch.

It was a seven-man match, one challenger taking them on in pairs while the others hung back for a set amount of time. The challenger was a big brute who charged at the first pair as soon as they were in, and Jacob groaned. "Never do that, Clara, you can see his swings coming a mile off. If you keep your guard up and wait, they won't know when you're about to strike. See how that bloke there is circling? He's looking for an opening and has his weight in the balls of his feet so he can run in at any time– Oh. Well, that was a mess. What he should have done is..."

And Jacob launched into a complicated description of a technique that probably needed to be seen to be understood, interrupting himself every twenty seconds or so to criticise someone in the ring. Clara nodded at every word, her face tight with focus as she watched blows being traded. Ned sat back, crossed his legs, and enjoyed the show.

The challenger now taking on the third pair of the round was an ugly bastard. One of the defenders was wearing an old shirt stained with sweat and blood, but the last man, moustached and quick, damp skin shining under the lights, was standing with his bare back to them, dancing under the brute's blows and landing quite a few hits. The brute was flagging, and Ned hoped he'd lose.

He did, a minute later, and since Jacob and Clara were too busy dissecting the final blow, Ned cheered for all of them. The last defenders standing took the applause, and Ned kept clapping until they climbed down out of sight.

The bell rang, and a new challenger climbed in to take on the next pack of defenders.

A good half hour passed this way, with Jacob narrating who was doing things wrong or right (usually wrong) and how to handle opponents who were bigger or quicker or stronger. Clara seemed to be trying to absorb every scrap of it, but Ned just nodded absently between cheers and said "Really? How?" a lot. His sort-of favourite defender from the first round returned twice, and was always standing at the end, chest heaving and wiping sweat off his face and neck. Maybe it wasn't very manly of Ned to be watching the flex of his back more than the fights itself, but, well, no one would know.

Suddenly Jacob groaned. "Oh this is _terrible_ ," he said as a challenger was carried out of the ring. "Not one good match! I had hopes for Phillips – faced him myself once, he had potential. Sorry, Clara, I'll just have to show you."

He stood, pulling his heavy overcoat off his shoulders, and dropped it in a bundle on the bench before Ned realised what was happening. "You're fighting?"

"These fools can't," said Jacob, unbuckling his gun belt. "Here, take this too." He handed Ned his purse. "Bobby usually watches it for me but I think he lifts a bob here and there."

He hopped down and headed for Topping and his chalkboard, unbuttoning his shirt as he went, getting cheers and backslaps the whole way as people realised why. Ned shook his head. "That man is far too trusting."

Clara said nothing, shifting slightly in her seat.

An awkward silence settled into the Jacob-size gap between them. Ned considered it, then deliberately said, "Did you understand what he was saying about all those blocks, and that headlock? Because I didn't."

A little smile appeared on her face; she shook her head. "Only a little, I'm afraid. But I will learn. I greatly appreciate Mr Frye's willingness to teach me and I'm sure I can adapt to his methods."

"I don't think Frye has much experience teaching," Ned said. "You may have to teach him that part."

"Hmm. I didn't consider that."

Ned was curious about this girl – how she'd gotten her obvious education, for one thing – and he was trying to find a way to ask that wouldn't be presumptuous or unsettle her when Jacob walked into the ring and Ned's mind stuttered to a stop.

It wasn't that he was shirtless. No. Yes – it was, but... And it wasn't as though Ned hadn't just been watching other shirtless men who were just as... They– Some of them were just as _fit_ , that was the word, a solid block of strength, all those muscles rippling in his back as he warmed up... And it wasn't the tattoos that were too far to make out and would be frustratingly covered up later. It wasn't even that Ned desperately wanted to look down and have that sort of body himself. No, it had to be that this was _Jacob_ , and Ned wasn't prepared for his goofy, reckless, murderous, generous, maddeningly contradictory partner to be so attractive.

 _...God damn it,_ he managed eventually. _I'm in trouble._

The bell rang and a pack of six climbed in, the first pair circling warily. Jacob kept low with his arms up in a shield just as he'd described – and looked right at them, at Clara, and demonstrated a block in slow-motion, unconcerned with the men waiting to pounce on him. When the first darted in, Jacob seized his wrist, yanking him off-balance, then used the same block on him, still far slower than normal, finishing with a quick solid punch to the head. The man dropped.

The second man came at him from behind, and before _Watch out!_ could form in Ned's mouth, Jacob pivoted and locked his arm round the other man's, bending it at a bad angle until a _crack_ echoed off the roof. He fell, whimpering, and Jacob demonstrated the arm-breaking move slowly on the air. Clara nodded quickly at him.

The remaining four men decided to ignore the rules and approached him all at once. Jacob waited calmly, watching, arms loose by his sides until the first one came to attack– and was thrown to the floor by a counter move a second later. The other three swarmed him, and there was no time to demonstrate, even to understand; Jacob dashed from one to another, stunning, striking, countering – then finished off all three without being hit once.

The crowd _roared_. Clara was on her feet cheering, and Ned clapped his hands faintly from his seat.

Of course Jacob didn't stop there. He signalled Topping for another round and demolished his opponents just as easily. He toyed with them, pausing and holding one still, lifting his arm up in a frozen punch so he could block and duck under it slowly, then tripping his baffled opponent and grinning as he stomped on the man's face.

It was hilarious how easy this was for him, and the audience laughed at his antics, enjoying the fight even though there was no doubt who would win. The only times anyone managed to land a hit on Jacob was when five or more rushed him, getting angrier every time, but all it did was make him bare his teeth and crack their skulls harder. He stood, hands on hips, waiting for their groaning bodies to limp away, shoulders like boulders and a chest he could–

"Do you think this is normal?"

Ned jumped, heat rushing to his face. Clara had been engrossed in the matches from the start, and he'd all but forgotten about her. If she'd caught him staring–

But no, her eyes were still fixed on the ring, and she'd only shuffled a little closer to be heard over the noise. "Mr Frye's talent, I mean. He and Miss Frye, I've never heard of them losing a fight in the streets."

Ned's heartbeat slowed a little and he took a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, he shrugged as casually as he could. "I'm sure it's happened. He didn't get those scars reading books."

"Still, it's hard to believe that I– that anyone could ever do what they do," she said. "One can mostly credit it when picturing Mr Frye fighting, but Miss Frye – Mrs Green, I should say – is so much smaller than these men."

Around them the crowd went "Oooo!" and some cringed, and Ned decided it would be safer to not look back at the display of shiny, sweaty muscle prancing around the ring just now. "I don't know if you'll ever be able to do what they do," he said honestly, "but don't think you need to. This is a sport, not survival."

"So you think I should learn to use weapons too?"

Ned's eyes were slipping back to the ring, to Jacob flinging one man right into another, winding them both before kicking them in the heads. He shook himself. "I think I don't know enough to say. I carry a firearm, but I don't sleep on the streets. You'll have to ask him."

She bit her lip. "But what if he expects me to not need them?"

"Then you say that you do. I don't think he's going to be insulted." Conspiratorially, he leaned in and said, "He's got too much ego for that."

Clara laughed.

The bell rang for another round's end, and Jacob took a minute to lean on the side of the ring and accept a drink from somebody. There was a pack at the chalkboard, and the odds on Jacob were laughable. Ned took the time to stretch, sitting up straight and twisting his neck in every direction other than the ring. He did catch Jacob waving at them, gesturing roughly at the ring in a questioning way, and sent back a thumbs up, to which Jacob toasted with his drink.

Clara had stood up for a moment to look around, and when she sat down again it was a little closer, a comfortable distance for acquaintances. "What kind of work are you offering, Mr Wynert? As I said, I am busy at the moment, but I'm curious."

"That's quite all right, Miss O'Dea. I don't have the kind of regular work Frye asks of you, just an odd job here or there. The one I was thinking of needs to be done soon, but there will be more like it down the line, and if I can count on you to do it, I'll get in touch at the time."

"What is this work?" asked Clara. Beyond them, a shout rippled through that a new round would start soon, get your bets in now, so she turned to look, but without the intense focus of before. "Perhaps I could squeeze it in."

Rushed work was rarely good work, but he was curious if she would make that judgement call. "I need the layout of a house in Westminster, and the routines and habits of everyone inside."

"You're planning a robbery," said Clara, quietly enough that there was no risk of being overheard. "And you can't scout the location yourself or else suspicion will fall on you later."

Too clever by a half, this one. Ned avoided confirmation. "Do you plan a lot of robberies, Miss O'Dea?"

A proud little smile forced its way onto her face. "There are some houses which tend to have a larder filled with more than its occupants could ever need. My children are well practiced at sneaking out small amounts unnoticed. Perhaps I could send one of them to aid you."

Ned hesitated. If this were an adult, he wouldn't worry about offending them. "I hope you understand, it's on Frye's word that I'm trusting you with this much. I don't know these kids of yours, and while I'm sure you trust them, I can't do that yet."

She looked up at him, frowning, but a moment later she nodded. "Of course. Would it reassure you to know that the two I have in mind are the same children who gathered most of the initial intelligence on the last two factories which you and Mr Frye acquired? I personally verify all information before delivering it, but they were the ones who play-acted as beggars near the ammunition factory for three days before they overheard enough details that I was able to track down the rest. They don't know who I passed the information on to, or what for. It would be more obvious with a robbery," she conceded, "but by being the only intermediary I protect my children from the consequences of your actions as well."

Now Ned was impressed. "That's a remarkable set-up, Miss O'Dea, and yes, it does reassure me. I accept your offer."

The fight was on again, but Clara only glanced at it. She drew herself up, spat on her hand, and offered it. "Agreed."

They shook on it.

It wasn't entirely fair to Jacob that, for the rest of his fights, they only half paid attention. They discussed the details of the job, negotiated fair wages, and shook on it again. Clara didn't insist on sealing it with spit, and Ned didn't suggest putting it in writing. Neither of them could have described any of the fancy moves Jacob showed off in the meantime, but he was far too obviously enjoying it for them to feel bad.

Their conversation drifted, mostly the polite small talk of two new acquaintances with the occasional teasing jab at Jacob, and when the undefeated club champion finally stepped down for the day, towelled off and came back to them (thankfully buttoning up his shirt on the way) he asked, "What's got you two so distracted?"

"Oh, you know," Ned said lightly. "Just business."

Jacob declared himself famished and, as it was getting dark, invited them both back to his train for dinner. Ned was having far too nice a day to cut it short to go home and eat alone, not to mention pass up a chance to see that beautiful train again, and his acceptance swayed Clara, who was very clear that she had work to do, but agreed to come. "Just for a little while, then I must see to settling the children into the mended buildings in Whitechapel."

As they walked to St. Pancras it began to drizzle, but it was a short trip, and Jacob knew his train's odd schedule well, so they didn't have to wait long.

Once aboard, it was like walking into every Christmas party Mother had ever thrown at once, bright lights and dozens of people crammed into the narrow train cars. A sea of Rooks were laughing and drinking in the bar car, each with a plate of hot food balanced on their knees or in their hands, or on a corner of a table if they were lucky. They lifted those precious plates high as they squeezed out of the way to let their boss through, and when they hopped the gangway into the new dining car Ned was relieved to find it was a little roomier, with everyone at proper tables and Agnes supervising the serving bowls, ladling out soup, bread, and thick slices of ham. She didn't see them right away, but other Rooks did, and a handful at one of the tables stood to make room.

Jacob waved them down. "Finish, finish. How's it coming in your parts of town?"

"Nearly finished patchin' the south blocks," said one of them – Ned recognised him from Jacob's birthday, Davey, and the woman was Maggie, so the thin man in the back had to be Bill, the last of Jacob's gang leaders. "Some of the lads had a scuffle and lost a box of nails to the mud. Can't pick 'em out till sunrise. We'll be done by midday and keep movin' east."

Clara said, "Then I'll begin sending the children and elderly in the afternoon. Can you tell me how many will be able to shelter there?"

Davey looked from Clara to Jacob, who nodded from above her head. Davey shrugged and chewed his bread, and mumbled some numbers.

"Ah! JACOB! Got summat for you!"

Agnes had spotted them and was waving him over. Ned decided to stay with Clara, mostly to keep from abandoning her entirely, and Jacob returned a few minutes later with a letter in hand and a twinkle in his eye.

"Ned, you're a bad influence on me," he declared as solemnly as he could manage, and Ned was baffled for a second until he waved the sheets with neat, small handwriting and said, "Or a good influence. Evie can't decide."

A bark of laughter escaped Ned. "So you _did_ write back," he said, not bothering to hide how very pleased with himself he was. "Find something to say, then?"

"She certainly did, look at this, it's five pages long," Jacob complained, but so fondly no one would be fooled, Ned least of all. He was already back to reading it, rolling his eyes here and there, so Ned clapped him on the shoulder and went to get some food.

It was a noisy evening, but a merry one. Once her boss and his guests were served and the pack had thinned out a bit, Agnes joined them at the table, leaving Nigel to dish out the rest. Ned was crammed between Clara and the window, and had to keep his elbows pressed tight, but it was liveliest, happiest meal he'd had in... God only knew how long.

Construction plans dominated the conversation, chaotic and with no shortage of "Oh, I hadn't thought of that" sort of problems, but enthusiasm was thick in the air. Clara jumped in often with pointed questions about capacity and ensuring that it wouldn't just be pushy adults who got the floor space, and they were usually answered to her satisfaction. Ned had little to contribute, and it was a nice change to just listen.

After an hour or so that passed in a blink, Rooks started to filter out, some of them going home to their families, others who had no families heading for night shifts on guard duty. The conversation wandered, from construction to pub games to a new beer someone was making, and when Agnes mentioned that she'd not be around the next morning as she and her her sister were going to Mr Dickens' book reading, Clara frowned and said, "'A Christmas Carol'? I've never heard of it. Is it a songbook?"

Agnes and Jacob both launched into enthusiastic descriptions of the plot, and Ned, who hadn't read it since Father had bought a copy a few years before he'd left, suddenly remembered a dream he'd had for months afterwards, half surreal and half nightmare, of floating round New York City in his nightdress and seeing "Netta Wynn" on every gravestone. Shame it wasn't a story he could share.

"Evie and I read it together every Christmas Eve after that," Jacob was saying. "We'd do voices. She made me be Tiny Tim for years – _I had to talk like this_ ," he said in a high, squeaky voice. "She wanted to be all the ghosts, but I _had_ to be Jacob Marley. We made Father be Scrooge."

Clara was trying hard to look like she wouldn't love to have childhood memories like that. "It's an old book, then?"

"Older than I am," Jacob said, wiping up the last of his soup with his bread.

"I beat it by three years," said Ned, and enjoyed the look on Jacob's face when his head snapped up. "Didn't read it till I was older, though."

Jacob's mouth was full, and by the time he swallowed and could say something he seemed to have thought the better of it. He turned to Clara instead. "I have a copy if you want to read it."

Her eyes lit up– but dimmed immediately. "Thank you, Mr Frye, but I'm afraid I couldn't take proper care of it, especially in this weather."

He shrugged. "Come read it here, then. I'll leave it out for you in the library car."

Clara brightened again, cautiously this time. "May I read the other books too?" she asked. "The science and history ones?"

Jacob looked baffled. "No one else is."

"Thank you, Mr Frye! I promise I'll keep out of the way, and I won't let my work be affected, I promise–"

"Er, that's all right Clara," said Jacob, and watching him squirm was _too_ much fun. Ned almost cackled.

Across the table, Agnes said, "Aye, that's all well and good, but why read it when you can hear it properly from the man who wrote it? Clara, why din ye come with me an' Jenny to the reading tomorrow? An' don' say yer too busy, ye just said ye've got to wait till afternoon to move the bairns."

Clara looked slightly less delighted at the idea than at the prospect of having a library to herself, which was to say still overjoyed, and accepted on the condition that she could bring other children along too. Ned rather suspected that Mr Dickens would be in for a small flood of urchins and, from what Ned knew of him, he'd probably be thrilled.

Clara left shortly afterwards, somehow securing all the leftover food and two Rooks to help her carry it to Whitechapel, and Ned got into a slightly heated debate with Jacob and Agnes over exactly what the Ghost of Christmas Past had looked like.

"'Twas an old man, it jus' _looked_ like a wee bairn," Agnes insisted. Jacob scoffed.

"It was a child who looked old, and it was an old _woman_ ," he said. "She had a white dress, I remember!"

"I don't think it was a person," said Ned. "It had too many legs."

"But it was like a candle," said Jacob.

"Oh yes, definitely a candle," said Ned.

"I though' it more like a sunbeam," said Agnes. "Y'know, godly light and all."

"But there was no sun, it was night," said Ned. "It wouldn't make sense."

"It was a _spirit_ ," said Jacob, "it doesn't make sense anyway."

"Neither does that many legs," grumbled Ned, and he shuddered.

"Just because _you_ dinnae believe in the good lord, Jacob, doesnae mean it weren't an angelic spirit."

"I'm sure it had something wrong with its legs," Ned insisted. "But it definitely wasn't a child."

Throwing up his hand, Jacob clambered out of his seat. "I'm going to prove you both wrong," he said, and headed for the car door.

"Oh, are we settling this? Let's settle this," said Ned, following, but Agnes shook her head.

"Ye can argue all ye like, it was an old man, an' he was an angel," said Agnes. "And I'm long overdue for me bed."

"Admit it, Agnes, you just don't want to lose," said Jacob, hovering at the end of the table while Ned squeezed out between the chairs.

"Ye can believe what ye like, it was an angel and I dinnae care ta argue further," Agnes replied loftily. "Now, would ye gentlemen be wantin' a cuppa before I turn in?"

Ned accepted gracefully for them both and chuckled as he followed Jacob to the door.

It was freezing out on the gangway. It had started to rain properly a while ago, and they had to dash from one door to the next, careful to hold on as the train chugged round a corner in... Ned couldn't even tell what borough. He wished he'd put on his overcoat rather than just tucking it over his arm.

A handful of Rooks were in the bar car, some curled up and sleeping on the cushioned benches, others sharing a quiet drink. Ned and Jacob stepped through softly, and at the next door Ned hung back, keeping dry while Jacob climbed ahead to unlock the library car.

The chandelier was dark; only the lamps mounted on the walls were lit, but it was enough to see by. Almost all the chests Jacob had stored in here were gone, just three of them left stacked in front of the stretch of wall that used be covered in pictures and information on Starrick's operations, and now had black flag with a skull on it. A thick cylinder of cast iron, a space heater, had been bolted to the floor there, and Jacob knelt to light it while Ned squinted at the shelves of books. "I don't suppose they're in any sort of order?"

"No," said Jacob, swearing for a moment as he caught the heavy lid on his fingers. "But it's not there anyway." He nodded to the side table by his couch. "I read it a few days ago, so you can give up now, Ned: It was a _child_."

And as Ned had last read it years ago, he was probably right, but of course Ned was going to see this through to the end. It was right on top – _A Christmas Carol in Prose; Being a Ghost Story of Christmas_ – and Ned started leafing through it while Jacob lit the candles round the middle of the room, starting with the candelabra that was perched on the safe. Ned stepped closer to it and tipped the book to make out the words.

He sighed. "It's definitely not an angel," he said. Jacob cheered, victorious.

"I told you!"

"Wait," said Ned, reading the passage again. "It's not a child either. 'It was a strange figure,—like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man'," he read. "...'diminished to a child’s proportions. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it–' What?"

Jacob's face was wrinkled up as if from a bad smell. "It sounds wrong in American."

Raising his eyebrows as high as they would go, Ned gave him a withering look that had been known to curdle milk, but Jacob was unfazed. Ned rolled his eyes and put on his best British accent, which had been known to curdle milk too, but for entirely different reasons. "'The arms were very long and muscular; the hands the same, as if its hold were of uncommon strength'–"

"Stop, stop, that's worse!" cried Jacob, actually looking pained. "It doesn't sound like you at all."

"Do you want to read it?"

He considered, but shook his head. "No, keep going. You can read Evie's parts next year."

 _Next year._ "And your father's?"

He looked pained again. "Maybe Agnes?"

Ned chuckled and took a seat on the end of the couch. He skipped over the description of the ghost's clothes and the beam of light that sprang out of the its head (which didn't seem much like a candle at all now, but at least they'd agreed on that part), and finally found the passage that had been floating half-remembered in his head all this time. "'The figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body.'" He made a face and hunched his shoulders, nearly shuddering again. "I think I forgot that part on purpose."

He snapped the book shut, satisfied that he hadn't been entirely wrong, even if it was the worst part that he'd remembered right. Jacob took it and sat beside him on the couch, flipping through the pages back to the front, to a handwritten note on a blank stretch of page: _For Cecily, with all my love. –Ethan._

Odd. "Who's Cecily?"

Jacob started, as though in those few seconds he'd forgotten he wasn't alone. He looked away. "Our mother."

Oh. Oh, that was a minefield Ned was _not_ going to step into. He searched quickly for something light-hearted to say. "I expect Miss O'Dea will have some strong opinions on the ghosts tomorrow."

It worked; Jacob chuckled, though not as boisterously as he might have. "No doubt. I should warn Charlie she's likely to stop and correct him during the reading."

Ned's brows shot up. "Would she really?"

Jacob thought about it. "Probably not. But if Charlie gets talking about his campaigns for children's rights again they'll never get back to the story."

Shaking his head, Ned sat back against the couch. "You have a knack for befriending interesting people, Frye."

"You consider yourself interesting?" Jacob countered, teasing.

Ned shrugged, taking off his glasses for a moment to rub off the fog from the warming room. "Something's keeping your attention."

Jacob's brow furrowed at that, for some reason. He peered at Ned, and was about to speak when the car door rattled.

Agnes elbowed her way in with a tea tray on one hip, and both men hurried to their feet to help. Ned cleared the side table and pulled it in front of the couch while Jacob closed the heavy door on the rain. "Thanks, Agnes. It smells wonderful."

"Ye migh' as well leave it open, I'm straight off," she said, setting down the tray. She waved a finger at Jacob. "Mind ye don' let Nigel make breakfast again; I'll no' have him ruinin' another pot in my kitchen."

"I promise," Jacob placated. She huffed.

"Well then, I'll take me leave. Goodnight ta ye, Mr Wynert," she said, tilting her head.

He tipped his hat back. "Ma'am."

Agnes beamed and turned on Jacob, hands on hips. " _Ma'am_ , ye hear that? I could get used ta hearing that."

Jacob all but shooed her out the door – "It wasn't an old man!" he called after her – and waited at the door till she was safely across the gangway. He turned on Ned and said, dryly, "Did you _have_ to be a gentleman?"

Ned spread his hands innocently and sat down again. "I was raised right."

The teapot was nearly too hot to touch and only a little had spilled in the wobbly journey across the train, though it hadn't been full to begin with. Jacob poured and offered sugar, the same manners they both pretended not to have when it suited them, and gave Ned the first cup.

Outside, it was starting to pour, rain pattering loudly on the roof and windows, but the sound was soothing, the room was dim and warm, and the heat of the tea was seeping into Ned's hands through the china. He settled comfortably back into the couch, and beside him Jacob did the same, crossing his legs as they waited for the tea to cool.

It was quiet, but not the strained, worrisome quiet that usually came of Jacob Frye not talking; he was relaxed, eyes lazily fixed on the heater, on the little licks of flame that could be seen through the iron grate, almost as good as a fireplace. Ned watched it too, his mind wandering, and when at last he took a sip of tea it warmed him all the way through to his bones. He closed his eyes and sighed, "Ah..."

Beside him, Jacob grinned. He'd been grinning all day – big grins, small grins, cheeky grins and sneaky ones, enough grins that Ned could make a catalogue of nuances. This one was small and satisfied. "Clearly I've won."

"Mm? Won what?"

"Our _bet_ , Ned," Jacob reminded him. "I told you I could cheer you up."

He wore another grin now, self-satisfied and content. And it was a generous thing he'd done, kinder than Ned would have imagined the day they met, but he had a detail wrong, and Ned had to correct him.

"You did," he said, sincerely, with all the warmth he was feeling. "And thank you, Jacob: this has been a lovely day... But there was never a bet." Jacob frowned, opened his mouth, so he added: "We didn't set out terms, or wager anything, and we didn't shake on it."

Jacob rolled his eyes and sipped his tea. "All right, I suppose not. But I _would_ have won."

"Definitely." Ned shifted in his seat, twisting so he could lean against the tall side of the couch and face Jacob more directly. His teacup rattled in its saucer. "I'm curious: What would you have wagered?"

He considered, stretching his legs towards the heater and crossing them at the ankles. "I have no idea," he said at last. "A day with my friend?"

Ned smiled. "Well, you already got that. And you still haven't collected on those safe-cracking lessons you won from our train race," he remembered suddenly. "How about we pick a day for that?"

"That's not a prize, Ned," said Jacob, but he lifted his teacup as a toast to accept anyway. "Deal."

Ned _clinked_ his cup on Jacob's.

They chatted a while longer about nothing in particular. The warm room was relaxing, cosy, and the soft hum of Jacob's voice was comforting. For once Ned didn't have a thousand thoughts clamouring about; his head was quiet, peaceful, almost fuzzy, and he didn't recognise it as anything more than _nice_ until he was dimly aware of the teacup being lifted as it slipped from his hands, and by then he didn't care.

Ned woke to the quiet rumble of a train and a heavy sense of being _safe_. The fabric under his cheek wasn't his pillow, and his neck was stiffened at a high angle, but the blankets were piled thick and high around his chin. He woke slowly, rolling half-aware from his back to his side, tugging the warm dark blanket over his eyes against the light.

Through a crack he saw the glint of his glasses folded neatly on the side table he didn't own–

Ned jumped, jolting sharp upright. He was on Jacob's train, he was– He was alone. His shoes were off and his hat and glasses, his pocket watch, but his clothes were on, only his coat unbuttoned. Jacob– Jacob couldn't have seen anything.

Jacob had tucked him in. _Like a child_ , part of him scolded, but Ned didn't feel shamed. He was safe – he was safe here. He'd fallen asleep and been tucked in and left alone with a safe he could have easily robbed, and there on the table was a key to the car door; Jacob had locked up so he would be safe in here and left him to sleep because Jacob trusted him.

Jacob did this.

 _Damn it,_ thought Ned. _I'm definitely in trouble._

But he was happy, and warm and snug and comfortable, and trouble could wait.


	5. The Woes of Scotland Yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take one master assassin, add one jewel thief, stir in a side of stolen documents, and bake for one hour or till the police come running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The puzzle lock Ned has is a type of combination lock. I'm taking the mechanism description from an 1853 book called _[Locks and Safes: The Construction of Locks](https://books.google.co.nz/books?id=by1bAAAAcAAJ&pg=PA152&dq=A.C.+Hobbs,+Locks+and+Safes:+The+Construction+of+Locks.+London,+1853&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiE492zvb7mAhV_7XMBHb6rAXEQ6AEIODAC#v=onepage&q&f=false)_ by [A.C. Hobbs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred_Charles_Hobbs), which is definitely accurate enough for this story. It would look something (but not exactly) like these locks, which come from all over the 19th century: [Pic 1](https://assets.catawiki.nl/assets/2019/12/20/9/0/6/906fff31-9c2a-4666-8223-4f618f920bf9.jpg), [Pic 2](https://assets.catawiki.nl/assets/2019/12/20/c/4/2/c42b80c0-8529-4b27-a588-cc0a8e803cf7.jpg), [Pic 3](https://media.istockphoto.com/illustrations/19th-century-engraving-of-a-letter-puzzle-combination-lock-illustration-id183235231), [Pic 4](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/a6/99/07/a699078fd0b327320cbaffa11cce87f4.jpg). Whether they're actually similar enough to safe mechanisms to practice with, I'm not sure.

Truth be told, Jacob had assumed Ned wouldn't have much to teach him about breaking into safes. How different could it be from picking ordinary locks? Bits of metal slotted together in some tricky way that could be rearranged to slide open smoothly – all you had to do was know how. He'd been doing it since Granny decided their hands were big enough to hold the tools, and he strode into Ned's office that evening expecting it to be a fun little diversion and a chance to show off before inviting his friend out for a drink.

He was stumped by the first lock Ned put in front of him.

It wasn't even a safe. It was a thick cylinder that fit in his palm, made of stacked metal rings engraved with letters with a big hook on a hinge linking the narrow ends. "It's a puzzle lock," Ned explained, turning it over in his hands. "Each of the rings has a notch on the inside, and there's a rod going through the middle that can't slide out unless they're all lined up properly. When they are..." he twisted the rings until the letters were in a different, still nonsensical order, and pulled the sides apart, showing the notch in the top ring and the rod with raised bumps on it that were the only thing resembling a normal key. The freed hook clunked back on its hinge.

Jacob frowned and took it, peering at it. The rings were tight, even with the end off; there was nowhere to put a tension wrench or pick. "So how do you reach the inner notches to turn them till they line up?"

"You don't, it's a completely different mechanism." Ned grinned. "You said you could pick any lock, Frye. Impress me."

Smug _bastard_. This couldn't be a common kind of lock – if it was he and Evie would have seen at least a few in their time – so how could it even count?

Never let it be said that Jacob Frye was a graceful loser: He put on an unimpressed face, put down the lock as if it was too dull for him, and said dryly, "I thought we were going to play with safes, not _toys_."

"Oh, we will," said Ned, still grinning, and – just to make it clear that he knew damn well Jacob was trying to avoid admitting he didn't have a clue – snapped the puzzle lock back together, twisted the rings around several times until the letters were jumbled, then put it down square in front of Jacob on the desk. "The mechanisms aren't quite the same, but how you break into them is similar. If you want to learn safes, you start with these."

Jacob was feeling cornered, but Ned's good-natured cheer was rubbing off on him. With exaggerated boredom to hide a smile, he asked, "What if I don't want to do it the easy way?"

Ned chuckled. "Then I'll watch you fail all night," he said, and leaned back in his chair to prop up his feet and laced his hands over his stomach, smug and comfortable. "Go on, get started, Frye. It'll be quite a show."

Jacob rolled his eyes. "How long's it going to take before you call me 'Jacob'?"

Ned blinked, taken off-guard, and his teasing smile faded into a warm regard. "If that's what you'd prefer. Jacob."

It sounded nice; nice in a way he hadn't been expecting, sticking to his ribs like honey, and it startled him. So of course he put on airs and declared, "Why, Mr Wynert, how _forward_ of you!" Then he leaned in seriously and added: "It's _Sir_ Jacob."

Ned laughed. "Well, _Sir_ Jacob, are you done trying to change the subject?"

Jacob hesitated – he hadn't actually been trying to, this time – and Ned brought his feet back to the floor. "Jacob, it's fine, I'll show you," he said. "I didn't expect you to have seen one of these before."

"I _knew_ it!"

"It wasn't a test. They really are a good introduction to the mechanisms most safes use. I started learning with these – my father had one for his lockbox. When I was twelve I came across a book on how they're constructed – by Hobbs, you should read it, man was a genius – and once you understand the thinking behind them it all makes so much sense. The creativity behind some of these designs, really, it's _fascinating_."

This might, Jacob thought to himself, be the most chatty Ned had been since they'd been sharing pints at his birthday. When he'd also been on about locks, come to think of it. He was bright-eyed and merry, and as he settled in the chair beside Jacob to demonstrate the tricky catch in yet another small lock – he'd said the name, must've missed it – Jacob felt like, maybe, he might not mind being a student again. Just this once.

So he paid attention, and asked questions, and Ned beamed every time he worked something out. He was just as happy when Jacob asked about things he didn't understand, and that meant more detailed descriptions and more leaning in close to point out tiny slots of metal in narrow spaces, so sometimes even when he was clear on something he pretended not to be, and Ned got to enjoy explaining it all over again. 

All that ended in short order when footsteps pounded up the warehouse stairs beyond and Ned's assistant hurried in, breathless and sweaty. "Oh good," she said, slumping. "You're still here."

"Rose? What happened?" Ned dropped the lock to go help her, and when she waved him off he hovered as she trod to the chairs and dropped into his seat. "I thought you'd be home by now."

"I was on my way and I passed Mr Gullifer's house." She paused, still breathing hard. "The police were there – it was a raid. I think he was arrested."

Ned frowned, but he didn't look bothered. "That's unfortunate, but we weren't likely to get more business from him anyway."

"No, Ned, you don't understand, I saw them taking his books. One of the sergeants definitely said your name. I think Gullifer put our business in writing."

" _Shit_." Ned sprang to his feet, one hand flying to grip the hair behind his ear, and paced in a short, tight circle. Suddenly he stopped and turned to Rose. "Will they still be there?"

She shook her head, pulling herself together and sitting up straight. "They were almost done. They'll be at the station by now."

Ned growled and rubbed his head. Jacob waited, but they both seemed to have forgotten he was there. "This Mr Gullifer hired you for something particularly illegal, I take it?"

Ned glanced at him. "Smuggling something particularly illegal, yes, nothing we could excuse as normal shipping. It was a one-off job, we do them for rich clients sometimes. Gullifer's an idiot, though. I should have turned him down. _Who_ is _stupid_ enough to put 'paid criminals to smuggle contraband' in their books?" He kicked a wall – which seemed to just hurt. Jacob winced with him. "It's all the chief needs to arrest me."

"I'll break you out," Jacob said easily. Ned shook his head.

"That's good of you, but the only reason that stuck last time is because we bribed the witness who named me to go back on his testimony. Ink and paper doesn't go away."

Jacob frowned and looked between them, wondering why neither had brought up the solution to this little mess yet. "Well, isn't it obvious?" he said. "We need to steal those books."

"Yes, but Scotland Yard's too heavily guarded for me to get close even if I had the time to case the place."

"And we don't," said Rose, "we'll be lucky if they wait till morning to get a warrant; they'll be knocking on our door by afternoon. Ned, I'll alert the crew: we'll need to send everyone into hiding until this is over."

They really didn't see it? Jacob was almost offended. He spelled it out: "I'll break in for you."

Ned looked at him with appreciation and something a little sad. "It'll be in a safe," he explained. "You can't crack that."

Minor problem. "We'll both go," he decided. "I'll get us in the building, you get us into the safe." Oh, this would be _fun_. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Ned was a _jewel thief_ , between them they could empty the Tower of London if they put their minds to it. 

Ned was looking to Rose, small expressions flickering across their faces. Jacob couldn't read them. Rose seemed doubtful, but after a few long moments she nodded tightly. "If you think so," she said.

"It's probably our best chance," said Ned. "But Jacob – this has to be perfect."

What a worrier. "It will be."

"We cannot be seen–"

"Obviously."

"No, _Jacob_. Listen to me." He stepped up and looked Jacob square in the eye. "We can't be seen and you _cannot_ kill anybody. If there's a single body there will be an investigation, and they'll suspect me on the timing alone."

Hm. That made things a little harder. But still – smoke bombs, knock-outs, distractions, there were plenty of ways. He shrugged, unconcerned. "No bodies. I promise."

Ned didn't look reassured, but the clock on the wall was chiming the hour and he didn't argue. "All right." He rubbed his forehead. "I need to go home and get some things. Meet me in the alley north of the Admiralty in an hour."

"I can come with you."

"I'll be fine. Can you escort Rose home?" He pulled on his overcoat, not bothering with the buttons despite the frosty night outside. "And tell the Rooks on guard outside that if there is a raid, I don't want them fighting – there's nothing here right now worth dying for. Rose–"

"I'll wait at my flat, and if I don't hear from you by midday I'll burn the books."

"And leave town." Ned implored. "Promise me. Your mother is better than prison."

Rose grimaced. "Barely," she muttered, but it was good enough for Ned: He grabbed his bag and hurried out the door, sprinting down the flights of stairs. Jacob offered Rose his arm. "Shall we?"

"In a moment." She stepped out into her office and closed the appointments book on her desk, then pulled five more from a drawer underneath, ignoring the ledgers on the shelf. "Will you carry these for me?" she asked, holding out half.

Jacob took the books. They were all neatly labelled "Appointments" with a date span on the cover and spine, covering some three or four months each. Which was odd, because Ned didn't have nearly enough meetings every week to fill– Oh, these were the real account books. "Clever."

A proud smile snuck across her face, but it dropped away quickly as she fastened her coat. "Mr Frye– Sir Jacob," she said solemnly, "I need you to promise me you'll keep him safe."

Jacob nodded and started towards the stairs. "Of course."

"He's had no time to plan, won't be sure of the layout, and the police will be suspicious on sight," she said – rambled, really. She was afraid. "If they catch you–"

"They _won't_ ," said Jacob. He paused, shuffled the books in his arms and looked her in the eye, as reassuring as he knew how to be. "Miss Lennox, I promise, I've done this a hundred times. We'll be back before you know it."

It didn't take long, by carriage, to bring Rose to her flat near the Great Fire monument, and Jacob was left with plenty of time to spare before meeting Ned. He spent it sorting and checking his weapons, stashing the most lethal blades and filling his belt pouches with extra smoke bombs. He kept all his throwing knives and his pistol for backup, but pulled out the flat brass knuckles that would stun quicker than kill. Ned wanted a bloodless heist? He was going to see just how well Jacob could meet that challenge. Forget locks, _this_ was his chance to show off.

Not that he was forgetting how important this was: Ned could have been ruined if he hadn't had Jacob to turn to, and the thought made Jacob's insides twist up – but he _was_ there and this sort of job was _not_ difficult, not for him. With Ned, working together? It would be downright easy, and as soon as they had the documents and Ned would see that. Maybe if they had enough fun, they could do this again.

For now, Jacob made a mild effort to look serious when he met Ned in the wide alley a block away from Scotland Yard. He'd stowed his hat away with his kukri and was hooded, and stood quietly in the shadows instead of whistling away his boredom – he could have, he'd been watching, normally and with eagle vision, and there was no one near enough to hear.

Ned was kitted out in dark, boring clothes more suited to a labourer than a businessman, layered up against the cold. His hair was under a limp knitted cap, he'd swapped his thin round glasses for a heavy pair with such thick frames that it hid half his face, and he had a scarf tied round his neck that could be quickly pulled up to cover his nose and mouth. He had a long coat and a bag strapped over one shoulder, large enough to hold several account books, a belt of small flat pouches holding lock picks and a dozen other fine tools Jacob didn't try to name – and his pistol, in a holster in the small of his back, hidden from normal eyes. Jacob opened his mouth to tease him for the hypocrisy... but he wasn't going into this unarmed either. Last resort and all. Best not mention it.

"Are you ready?" Ned asked in a low voice, watching the exits, all business already. There wasn't much cover in this alley even in darkness, and the street ahead was wide, with a sweeping view of Nelson's column down the left. Across the way was the block which Scotland Yard sat in the middle of. They couldn't see the building itself from here, but they could see the mouth of another, narrower alley that opened onto the main street, twenty or thirty feet down to the right. Were they to casually walk far enough down that alley, they'd pass the policemen's front door. It was also where the police wagons were kept.

"Almost," said Jacob. He smirked. "I told Davey and the lads to make a distraction, get as many bobbies out of our way as possible. They should be here soon."

Ned leaned against wall behind him, careful to stay in the darkest shadow, and tried to look bored. "What kind of distraction?" 

Jacob peered out into the street – showing was so much more fun – but there was no sign of them yet, and after a moment Ned said, "What _kind_ , Fr– Jacob?"

He turned and smiled. "Was that so hard?"

Ned rolled his eyes. "Habit. What kind of distraction?"

This time, the world cooperated with his sense of drama: There was a muffled clamour down Trafalgar way, then two carriages thundered out of the gloom, full of rowdy Rooks dressed in anything but green, swinging wildly. They raced by, men whooping and firing a few shots as they went, getting everyone's attention, and took a sharp turn at the next intersection, one carriage almost tipping on its wheels as they dashed out of sight, down the street that could be clearly seen from all the front windows of Scotland Yard.

From beyond there was a crash, and if the men had managed what Jacob had asked, they would have hit something in plain sight of the police, and stalled for just long enough to be seen and followed. Shrill whistles split the air, and a few moments later two police wagons lurched out of the side alley, outraged policemen scrambling to hold on as they took off. At least three men were on each – no, four on the second, hanging on to the back door, seven in all. "How's that for a distraction?"

"Surprisingly effective." Ned smiled, looking a little more at ease, and Jacob patted himself on the back. "How long will they be gone?"

"The lads'll lead them round all night if they can." Jacob grinned and swept out his arm in grand presentation. "Shall we?"

Ned nodded, eyes on the quieting scene across the street. "I'll go first, cross the street down the way a bit and pass by the alley, see how much security is left. You follow in a minute."

And off he went without waiting for a better idea, affecting a slouch that wouldn't impress Freddy, but at least didn't look like himself. Jacob shook his head, waited till Ned was a a few feet away, then fired his rope launcher and kicked his way up to the roof.

He paused for a moment to check Ned's route – he was casually making his way down their side of the street, looking down the alley opposite as he passed, and walking well past it so no one in there could see as he crossed the street – then fired again, ziplined across, and hopped down brick face just inside the mouth of the alley. He landed well in time to lean casually against the wall and wait for Ned to pass the corner.

When he did, he jumped. "I told you to follow!" he hissed, and glanced around quickly before backing out of view of the police station again, ducking into a doorway on the main road. Jacob glanced over his shoulder, then followed. 

"I did. You're just slow. No one can see us if we're just round the corner, by the way, but there's a sentry at the front door."

Ned squinted at him. "I didn't see anyone."

"Ah ¬– he stepped back inside just before you arrived. And there's one patrolling round the back; when he's at the end of his route you can see him through there" – he pointed round at the gated path that led off the alley to bend round the back of the station. Icy puddles dotted the way, so the ground was probably too frost-hard to leave footprints, but it would be miserable to step in by mistake.

Ned grimaced, drumming his gloved fingers on his chin. "Can't go in the front, can't go in the back: that means it's a window or the roof." He sighed. "There's no drainpipes here we can climb without being seen if the front sentry comes out again. We'll have to go round the block, find a way off the main road that isn't watched–"

"I've a better idea." Jacob grinned. Stepping right up close, he snaked an arm around Ned's ribs, pulled him in tight, said, "Hold on!", and fired his rope launcher. 

Ned scrambled to lock his arms round Jacob's neck as the rope retracted and yanked them off their feet. He screamed like a girl, biting it off quickly, but by then they were almost there. Jacob kicked them clear of the brick as they passed windows and over the eave, till they stopped at the side of a chimneystack. Jacob freed the line, and they dropped neatly onto the top of the roof.

And stayed, frozen, arms locked around each other. Ned seemed stunned – he was blinking hard and his heart was racing, breath bursting in hot puffs against Jacob's throat, and somewhere in the back of Jacob's mind _let go_ was trying to get attention. 

It lasted seconds at most, then Ned flexed his hands till they broke their iron grip and he wobbled, finding his feet. Jacob had to stretch out his arm to keep it from cramping.

" _That's_ how you get to my window?" Ned demanded. He hushed himself to a whisper instantly, but this high up it was safe. Jacob shrugged and turned his gauntlet over.

"You've seen it before. What did you think it was for?"

"It's sharp and can shoot a long way: I assumed it's for killing people."

Jacob _felt_ himself light up, possibilities dancing through his mind. "Bloody _brilliant_!"

Steady now, Ned smiled, and he fixed his eyes on the gauntlet. "How does it work?"

The most impressive demonstration had been done already, so it took Jacob barely a minute to broadly describe the gas-powered firing hook, the rope storage wheel, and the control mechanism that retracted it at speed. "Aleck's just added a new trick: If I change this switch here–" he slid a flat lever around the edge of the circle "–it lets the rope out slowly. Good for descents if there's nothing to grab, but then the hook and line are lost, and I go through enough of them already going across gaps, so it's a backup."

Ned had nodded through the explanation, eagerly leaning in to see it but careful to keep a handspan of cold air between them. "I want to take it apart," he breathed, a covetous gleam in his eyes. Jacob snatched it back, startled, and Ned said, "Not _now_."

"Oh."

Chuckling, Ned stepped carefully down the inner slope of roof. They made their way up and along the eaves until they could see into the police building across the gap. "So. We're going in from the top." Ned crouched, studying the shadows that passed over the windows. "We probably won't have to search every floor: in their shoes I'd keep the most sensitive evidence higher up. There's a safe on the ground floor, behind a false panel in the front desk, and I know there's at least one other, but not where."

Standing behind Ned's shoulder, Jacob slowed himself enough to settle into the meditative sort of stillness he needed for eagle vision, and looked: Ned was right, there was definitely a safe on the ground floor, and five policemen working within arm's reach of it, plus the sentry at the front door. The first floor had three men, but no safe. The second floor had one man at a desk and a large safe tucked in the corner behind him. The third, top floor had a smaller safe, three policemen, and a man in the cell who seemed to be chattering non-stop. "One each on the second and third floors," he said, blinking himself back to normal vision, "and the one in the front desk."

Ned jerked his head up to look at him, satisfaction lighting up his face. "How did you–? Oh, of course, Clara." He shook his head. "She's fast. Fair warning, Jacob, I _will_ try to hire her out from under your nose."

Jacob closed his mouth, a gleeful something like "Oh, did I mention I can see through walls?" dying on his lips. There... wasn't time just now: Ned would want to know everything about how eagle vision worked, and thousands of years of records and research still hadn't given Evie a satisfactory scientific answer. Ned would _believe_ him, of course. It wouldn't be like with Ollie Wilson, back in Gelli when they were fifteen. He'd believe it. There was just no time now.

"What about the policemen?" Ned was asking. "You said you can do this without killing anyone – How? There's got to be at least half a dozen left in there, and remember I've got to have silence to work."

That was easier. "Chokehold," said Jacob. "I sneak up behind them one at time, knock them unconscious. If there's a chance of being seen I'll use a smoke bomb for cover."

"Hm. How long will they be out?"

Honestly, he hadn't stayed around long enough to check in years. "If I do it right? An hour or so."

"And if you don't?" asked Ned, looking like he already knew the answer. Jacob grinned.

"A lot less, or forever." He shrugged. "I'm very good at it."

"I'm sure," Ned said dryly, but there was a smile in his eyes. Trust. He took a deep breath and looked down at the narrow alley below. "All right. I can jump this gap," he said, and half a second later Jacob's heart leapt into his throat as Ned–

–landed fine, he was fine, bit of a heavy thud at the end there but he cleared the edge, landed in a crouch with both hands on the roof, and only winced a little as he stood up. "You coming?"

Jacob leapt and landed lightly. They weren't directly above Scotland Yard yet, they'd jumped to the building joined to it, and cat-footed their way closer, both keeping an eye and ear on everything below.

Literally, in Jacob's case. He touched Ned's arm and Ned slowed, turning back. "What is it?" he whispered.

"The man in the cell," Jacob said softly. He was looking through the roof, away from Ned, and frowned. "Something about him."

"We can't have witnesses. One of the guards will have a key. How fast can you knock them unconscious and get in the cell?"

But that wasn't it, it was something else, something– He listened, sifting through the layers of voices to focus– Aha. "It's your client, Gullifer. They're holding him here."

Ned stopped, mouth open, and frowned. "How could you know that?"

And Jacob, blinking himself back to normal, hesitated. "I've got very good ears," he said. It wasn't even a lie.

"You can hear them," Ned said flatly. Then he shrugged. "That's useful. All right, Gullifer... hmm. Leave him awake," he decided. "I want to know what he's told them, and it'll be more suspicious if we go in, knock him out and lock him up again."

Jacob nodded and crouched at the edge of the roof, above a window. "There's three policemen in there," he whispered. "I'll knock 'em out and come back for you."

This time it was his turn to pop off without giving Ned time to speak. He dropped off the edge, onto a windowsill, and chucked a smoke bomb. From there it didn't take long before there were three deadweights on the floor, and Jacob slipped back to the window, stuck his head out, and waved.

Ned was slower lowering himself to the edge and shuffling over it, but he made it down fine, and must not have seen Jacob's offered hand along the way. He started to cough and covered his mouth with his scarf against the lingering smoke. 

In the cell, Gullifer was letting out big, hacking coughs, and Jacob checked to see if any of the policemen below were alerted, but no. He and Ned kept their footsteps light as they approached the cell, and Jacob kept his shoulder to it, keeping watch while Ned approached and shushed the man. "Mr Gullifer! Keep quiet and whatever you do, do _not_ say my name."

"Oh my, Mr Wy–!" Another cough cut him off, and lucky thing too.

"What did I _just_ say?" Ned hissed, and the message seemed to get through this time: Gullifer nodded, and even kept his voice down.

"I knew you'd come! Well, I knew somebody would come. It's outrageous the way they treated me, simply outra–"

"I'm not here for you," said Ned, "I'm here for the written evidence you were so kind to provide them with. But, if we can get it out unnoticed, they won't have anything to charge you with either, unless you were foolish enough to say anything?"

"Of course not!" cried Gullifer, and both Ned and Jacob shushed him. In a quieter voice of disgruntled offense, Gullifer said, "I have been the picture of silence! They haven't wrung a word out of me, not a single word. From the moment those insolent men stormed into my home I have refused to give them one single inch!"

"Yes, you're the picture of reliability," Jacob drawled.

"Actually, I believe him," said Ned, glancing up. "He can talk for hours and say nothing. You should have seen how long it took for him to get around to saying what he wanted to hire us for."

"Exactly, sir! So you see–"

"Enough," Ned said curtly. "You're going to go to the cot and pretend you slept through all of this. Keep playing innocent and maybe your attorneys will get you out of here once the evidence is gone. Do _not_ say my name again, you understand? We've never met."

"Oh yes, of course; terrible mistake that was–"

Ned took out his pistol. "You say _nothing_ , or I'll make you say nothing. You've put my entire business and several lives in jeopardy and I do _not_ take that lightly."

Finally, Gullifer went quiet. He nodded, and retreated to the cot. 

"Idiot," Jacob muttered. 

"Mm. Now where's the safe?" Ned started for the nearest cabinet to poke around, but it was the wrong one: Jacob tugged on his sleeve and pointed him round the corner, to the stack of shelves filled mostly with papers, with the small heavy safe on the lowest shelf. It was in plain view of the staircase down, and Jacob crouched back-to-back with Ned as he started to work the lock, smoke bomb in hand and all senses fixed on the men downstairs.

Shame he couldn't watch Ned work. They hadn't got past the puzzle lock earlier, and he itched to know how Ned did it.

It wasn't quick, that was sure. Nothing like picking the lock on a trunk: Almost two minutes passed before the faint sounds of whatever he was doing stopped and metal gently scraped on metal as the door opened. Paper shuffled. Then, just as softly: "Shit. It's not here: This is their cash safe. We have to go downstairs."

He packed the cash into his bag anyway and, catching Jacob's eye, grinned and said, "It'll look more like an ordinary robbery."

"What's my cut?"

"Fifty-fifty, of course."

Jacob still had the smoke bomb in hand, and once Ned was ready he crept to the lip of the stairs. Ned hung back, and Jacob made his way down the first half-flight, pausing at the corner of the landing to look around with normal vision as well, then doing the same with the second half, keeping just out of sight. There was still only one man, and he was in the office directly under the stairs. Even a whisper might be heard now, so he put a finger to his lips and pointed down, and Ned nodded.

Leaving Ned on the landing, Jacob darted out, keeping low, and swung into the office fast enough to surprise the policeman: A few seconds later, he was down. 

Jacob waited, but Ned didn't move from the stairwell, other than to shift his weight on the balls of his feet. He was right above Jacob too, this was the part of the ceiling that sloped, so Jacob reached up and rapped on the wood once, short and sharp. He saw Ned jump, but he immediately got it: He crept down carefully, peered out into the main room, and Jacob poked his head out to nod that all was clear.

Ned nodded, and a moment later he darted in, keeping an eye on the stairwell down. The partition wall separating the office from the main room would hide them from view as long as they kept close to the back wall, and fortunately that was where the safe was. It was also where Jacob had lowered the policeman's body, and Ned looked pointedly at it, then at the narrow space in front of the safe.

Ah. Jacob took hold of the arms and dragged it further away, behind the desk. Ned knelt by the safe and, as he pulled out his tools, mimed knocking at the ceiling.

Jacob shrugged, palms up: It worked, right?

Ned tipped his head side to side, not quite agreeing, but the safe was waiting in front of him, and he focused on that.

This one took nearly four minutes, and Jacob would have been bored except that this time he could watch the door _and_ watch Ned work, and it was, as promised, fascinating. Ned was meticulous, laying his tools out in a neat row and running his fingers lightly over the safe door and lock as he tapped and tested and listened. Jacob couldn't figure out everything he was doing (not most of it, honestly), but he seemed to be checking for weaknesses or something by hearing them through the metal. No wonder he'd insisted on silence; he even put his tools down softly, and Jacob made sure to keep still, to keep even his breathing under control as he watched.

Ned seemed oblivious to it, engrossed in his work, and when there was a slightly louder _clunk_ , muffled by the metal, a wide smile swept across his face. He pulled open the door – the hinges squeaked, but not loudly – and beamed, proud.

Then his face fell. He sat back on his heels and sighed.

There were papers in this safe, obviously not the right ones, and a lot of random items, maybe evidence in other crimes. There was too much to fit into Ned's bag, so he closed it and quickly packed away his tools, worry tight across his face. Jacob reached over and squeezed his shoulder, and tipped his head towards the stairs, and that helped: Ned nodded, a little smile on the edge of his lips. 

He held up two fingers – two floors to go down this time – and Jacob shrugged: It wasn't a problem. He pointed down and held up three fingers, and held up the smoke bomb: He'd have to use it again to knock out all three men. Ned frowned, puzzled but not confused, and nodded.

Jacob made his way down. The floor below was wide open with no walls for cover, and in the centre was a grand staircase going down to the front door below. There were two desks on the far side, where two of the three policemen were working, and Jacob had them all down well in time, though the last one was nearly out of range of the bomb. 

As the smoke started to clear, Ned crept down the stairs, scarf over his mouth. He waited till he could see Jacob crouched on the opposite side of the staircase, then pointed down, a curious look on his face. How many? 

Six, now – a new man had arrived, the others were filling him in on the carriage chase – so Jacob held up six fingers. Ned squinted at him, and nodded.

Jacob got to work.

He took down the five men in the main room, using two smoke bombs to keep the cloud up long enough to finish them all. Last was the sentry out front, who'd been oblivious to it all as the door was closed, so he had to be lured in with a whistle.

Six down. There was still the man patrolling out back, but he was too far away – Ned would be left alone and exposed if Jacob went after him, and if other policemen came to the building for whatever reason they could come in through either door: Jacob would have to keep watch on both, but at least no one could come at them from above. Which was good, because this floor was a disaster to guard alone: half of it was always around the other side of the stairs, and the safe was, of course, hidden in the large front desk that was in direct sight of both doorways. At least they could talk again

"Psst, Ned! Finished!" He leaned over the front desk to crane his neck up the stairs. Ned peeked into view, then hurried down, keeping low and checking everything for himself: The layout, the closed doors, the unconscious men. He went straight for the safe, and Jacob climbed out of the narrow space so he could work. He almost stayed sitting on the desk, but that would make Ned think he wasn't really keeping watch, so he walked between the front and back windows, keeping a normal eye on the approaches and carrying the unconscious policemen to the narrow space under the stairs. "Anyone out there?" Ned whispered after a minute.

"Not close enough to worry," said Jacob, on the quiet side of normal volume. "Having fun yet?"

Glancing up over the counter, Ned grinned. "This part is always fun. And.... got it!" He shuffled back on his knees and pulled it open.

"What, already?" 

"This is an old model, bad reputation. They were probably counting on no one finding it– _Yes_. Here it is."

Jacob peered over the desk. Ned was smiling broadly at an account book jammed with loose pages, relief written all over him as he closed it again. He looked up, grinned, and packed it into his satchel, stuffing some other papers from the safe in with it. "How's our exit?"

It was over? Already?

Startled, Jacob walked to the windows to check out the front, then to the back. Truth be told, there was only the one policeman left awake nearby, and he was patrolling far down the end of the block, well out of sight. In fact, he and Ned could probably stroll out singing pub songs and not be caught, at least not by police. There were civilians around, mostly out front, and someone could look out a window, but it was nearly one o'clock and bloody freezing, so even if they did, they wouldn't see faces. 

Ned stood up behind the desk, all his tools in their pouches and the safe closed behind its panel. "Jacob?"

"We _should_ be all right," he answered in a low voice, peering out the window and checking carefully. He crouched beside the closed back door. "Be careful."

Ned nodded, and slipped into position behind Jacob, ready to follow. "Lead on."

Out back was a little courtyard, hard-packed dirt sprinkled with frost, with no light except that which shone through the windows behind them. Jacob kept low. The best way out would be to go left, through the gates and back to the alley they'd started in, and he did take a step that way, but then he saw, at the edge of his eagle vision to the right, the policeman walking back their direction. He was a way off, probably couldn't see them, but why risk it? 

Quick as he could, Jacob turned, hooked an arm around Ned, and took them in two big steps back past the back door and into the curtained hiding spot beside it.

It was cramped, with two people. They each had their backs pressed hard against the rough walls and there wasn't an inch of space between them. Elbows had to be tucked in tight to keep from poking the ratty curtain, and Ned's arms were trapped between their chests, palms flat against Jacob's front. His heartbeat thumped loudly in the darkness.

"What's happening?" he whispered.

"Patrol coming this way," said Jacob. "Once he's gone we'll be good."

Outside, the policeman was now close enough that he really could catch them if they made noise, a faint crunch of twigs under his shoes loud enough for them both to hear. Ned had made his breathing silent, almost assassin silent, but Jacob could feel the rise and fall of it, could hear his heartbeat thumping, warm and loud, getting faster as the footsteps came closer.

Jacob's right arm was still around Ned's back, elbow jammed hard into the back wall. He couldn't say anything, but he could move his hand a little without making noise, rub Ned's back in something like a reassuring pat, a promise that it would be fine–

Ned's heartbeat sped up, and he took a sharp breath. 

Jacob froze, because that wasn't because of the policeman. That wasn't fear at all. 

The tiny space was warming fast, body heat and the air they breathed out, hot tickles in the cold night. The air felt different, prickly, like a voltaic bomb had gone off nearby, and in the dim light they were nose to nose, eye to eye. 

It was...

...Maybe.

Jacob pressed his hand a fraction tighter against Ned's back, pulling them closer – and Ned's heartbeat spiked again. Jacob grinned.

"Shouldn't you be keeping watch?" Ned breathed, faint even this close, and drawing closer.

Jacob couldn't look away. "What?" he managed. "Through the walls, in the dark?"

"I'm starting to think you can."

They were so close now, Jacob could have kissed him... and suddenly he really, really wanted to.

And he would have, except at that moment voices and heavy footsteps thundered through the front doors of Scotland Yard, loud through the wall. Jacob jerked his head round, looking in, looking through – shit, that was all the policemen who'd gone out chasing, each hauling in a Rook or a Blighter. The boys were spitting at each other, one – Davey – was limping, and suddenly there were far, _far_ too many people around for a safe and sneaky exit. 

Ned stiffened. "What's happening?"

"Let's just say Dave isn't getting a bonus tonight." Jacob looked around quickly. The back path was still clear, but with all the men packed inside he couldn't tell if anyone was looking their way. There was at least one window they had to pass–

A cry rang out: Someone had found the unconscious men. Suddenly the police were on alert, looking everywhere, one was opening the back door, if Jacob used another smoke bomb they might be able to get out with the rope launcher–

Someone, Rook or Blighter, used the distraction to break free, and all hell broke loose, a three-way brawl, everyone attacking anyone not their own.

Jacob dove out through the curtains ("Stay here!") and barely ducked in time to avoid the policeman who was thrown through the nearest window, glass shattering all over the place. A Blighter followed, running for freedom, and Jacob let him. He had to protect his Rooks. 

One ran out the back door, followed closely by a policeman, and Jacob sprang forward to clobber him with brass knuckles. The fight was spilling out in all directions, but most policemen were just inside, trying to contain their prisoners as they ran for the doors. Jacob dashed in, taking down the first enemy he reached with his hidden blade: The blame would go on the brawl. 

Behind him he heard the escaped Rook fighting with the window-breaking Blighter, but there was no time to help, three more Rooks were still inside, struggling back to back. The wide desk was a clear path between the fighting, he turned to jump and slide down it–

Somewhere behind him, Ned shouted in pain, and Jacob's heart stopped. 

He spun round. Ned was out in the open, scarf barely hiding his face, pistol in hand, but it was useless, locked in an iron grip by the Blighter brute who was pummelling him. Ned was hitting back, kicking, trying to shield himself from the blows, but the brute got in a gut punch and Ned doubled over.

Jacob bulled his way through the melee, choking on panic he hadn't known since he'd seen Evie thrown and crumpled on stone with Starrick's hand around his throat. He leapt over a body, _stumbled_ , and ripped the Blighter off Ned, throwing him down and stabbing him in the face. 

He swept Ned up and sprinted for the gate, crashing through icy puddles in his way. A sharp right – down the alley, back to the street–

Someone shouted behind him. He didn't stop to look – he ran, across the street to the Admiralty, dodging a late night carriage, down the side street where they'd met up and a hard right into another alley, narrower, out of sight. 

"Put me _down_ , I'm _fine_!" Ned cried, and shoved furiously at Jacob, trying to wrench himself free. Jacob did, but the jolt made Ned groan and wince, and he fought off the hand Jacob steadied him with. "I'm not a goddamn _doll_!" he snapped. He cradled his wrist and tugged hard on his shirt, straightening it. "What happened?"

What _happened_? Three Rooks might be arrested or dead by now and he– "I told you to stay put!"

"You didn't tell me anything, you just jumped out there! You reckless _idiot_ , they almost _saw_ us, how _dare_ you–"

Something boiled over. " _Me?_ What were you THINKING? You can't fight, you're no match for them! You were supposed to be hiding!"

"I'm not a coward!"

"No you're an idiot, I never should have let you come along–"

" _Let?_ "

"-why don't you stay in your bloody _office_!"

Ned backed away, cold fire in his eyes. "This was _my_ job," he hissed. "I hired _you_. Consider it completed, Mr Frye. Your payment will be ready tomorrow."

He stormed off, leaving Jacob to sputter empty, angry words in his wake.

Evie hadn't been wrong, exactly, when she'd said her brother wasn't one for deep thought. He was usually too busy with whatever was happening now or happening next to think too much about what had happened already: it was done, couldn't change it, always more going on now. But when something went really wrong, when he couldn't stop thinking about it, Jacob went to St. Paul's. 

Not into the church to pray or confess or any of that, it had been years since the Fryes had gone to a single Sunday service to keep up appearances in Crawley. No, Jacob went to the northwest bell tower, under the highest dome of arches where he'd once found a hidden chest of money. It was quiet, had a fantastic view, and was almost impossible to get to. 

After running back to Scotland Yard to end the fight, after making sure his Rooks had safely escaped, after punching bloody the two Blighters and policeman who got in his way, it was to St. Paul's that his feet, and his rope launcher, carried him. When he looked around and realised where he'd stopped, alone and with nothing more to take out his anger on, he kicked the stone and screamed at the air.

The _nerve_ of that man! He'd _saved_ Ned just now, saved his business, saved _everything_ by breaking him into that place! It wasn't a _job_ , he wasn't _hired_ , he'd volunteered! For a _friend_! A friend who turned round and blamed him for everything the second things went wrong–

And why the HELL had Ned gone out there? He should have stayed safe, out of the way – _I told him to stay safe!_ He should have known better. He could have been hurt, could have been _killed_. Ned wasn't a fighter, he didn't even carry weapons besides his firearm, and that was useless in close quarters. If that Blighter'd had a minute longer– if he'd had a knife–

Ned could have died. Ned could have _died_ and he– "It's not my _fault_!" he shouted. "I did everything right!" How was he supposed to know the boys would be caught, that the police would come back early? He'd planned this job, more than he usually did. He'd watched out for Ned, gone along with his worries even when there was no need, avoided the fun of brawling and been as stealthy as Evie instead, and when it went wrong he'd improvised and _they'd all got out alive_ , alive and even anonymous – no one had seen his face or Ned's and was still breathing. He'd _done_ it, it had _worked_ , and it wasn't perfect but at every turn he'd done everything right. " _Everything!_ "

His voice echoed and vanished into the night. In the chilly air, his breath puffed faintly white. 

He hadn't, though. Not exactly, and guilt tugged at him. After the fighting broke out, yes, he'd done the best he could, but before that... when they'd still had time and space to sneak out quietly... he hadn't.

Why _not_?

He didn't remember what he'd been thinking, if he'd been thinking anything at all. He hadn't decided to muck around, hadn't been trying to do something or get something, he just... hadn't... wanted it to end. Was that _all_? 

Ned could have died, and he could have avoided it.

Jacob clawed both hands down his face, rubbing it hard, and sighed. He was tired, the messy whirlwind of rage and fear starting to settle in his mind, and he dropped down to sit on the stone ledge of the tower, feet hanging off the side. Cold air nipped at his nose, swirled in his lungs, and the sweat from running and climbing was drying on his skin. The city, laid out below him in the dark, was twinkling.

If Evie were here, she'd tell him off for not taking it seriously, to begin with. He'd been so sure it would be an easy job – _it WAS easy! Or, it would have been_ – that he'd spent more time showing off how good he was, how he could clear an entire building of threats... And why _had_ he been so determined to show off in front of Ned? They were already partners, already on a job together, having _fun_ , something he hadn't realised he wanted and missed since... since Roth rather effectively burned that bridge, and Jacob shoved that thought of his mind as fast as he could.

And then, when they were hiding out the back door, waiting for the patrol man to pass, crammed in together – where had _that_ come from? Not that Ned wasn't... Ned was.. Ned was _great_ , he was fun and clever and making him smile was a victory Jacob never tired of. He was a rock for all that he was so short, a cheerful businessmen who'd politely negotiate over a desk and draw a pistol on those who threatened his crew, marvellously unconcerned with the law but made iron-clad paper trails to protect his friends. He laughed with Jacob, enjoyed swapping stories, asked for help and never tried to change him, and Jacob wouldn't change him either: He was a perfect best friend and partner in crime and... and... and they'd never been that close before. Jacob had never thought about it, not really, and when he did he stamped it out of his mind – it never, ever ended well with men – but he wanted...

He didn't have the words for it. 

Crumpled deep in the breast pocket of his vest, Evie's last letter was a bit worse for wear. Jacob took it out and turned the paper over in his hands, comforting like an old toy. He hadn't replied to it yet – hadn't finished, the draft was still waiting back on the train – but he'd read it so many times he didn't need to open it anymore. _I'm delighted and relieved that you have found such a good friend in Ned Wynert,_ she'd written. _Though of course I am very happy to be here, I feel terrible for leaving you alone while I have Henry, and while I cannot decide if he will overall be a good or bad influence (I suspect and hope his sensible nature will rub off on you a little), I am happy to know you have someone whose company brings you so much joy._

Joy. Ha. Not much joy just now. 

The thing was, much as he didn't want to admit it, in some ways Ned was a lot like Evie. She never gave in if she thought she was in the right: she would rather burn down the barn, never speak to him again, and if they hadn't both taken a step back after their fight with Starrick, they might never have reconciled before she got on that boat. They wouldn't be in touch now, maybe never would be again, and Ned could do the same. He and Ned didn't have a lifetime of history and the Brotherhood to fall back on. Ned could easily cut ties, and who knew if he would? He could be writing up some papers to dissolve their company right now. Jacob had never seen him this angry before.

What about, he still wasn't clear on. The irony was, Ned didn't _know_ that Jacob had delayed their escape, and Jacob didn't dare tell him. What could he say? _Sorry I almost got you killed, didn't mean to, I was trying to impress you and got distracted wanting to kiss you._

No, he couldn't say that, not ever.

But he could say sorry. Sorry for not getting them out of there sooner. Sorry the distraction backfired. _Sorry you got hurt._

He didn't want to. That would mean dragging his feet to Ned's door, head down and hat in hands, and probably being shouted at all over again, no matter if it wasn't fair or where the blame really deserved to fall. It would mean grovelling, humbly swearing to never do it again...

But the other choice was losing Ned, and that wasn't an option.

Jacob picked himself up, took aim, and fired his rope launcher.

Rose Lennox had a one-room flat facing the front of her building a block away from the Great Fire monument, and Jacob walked up to the door, up two flights of stairs, patting his pockets to check for the third time that his peace offerings were still there. Hesitating on the landing, he could see Ned inside, sitting backwards on a chair, flinching every time Rose rubbed a salve into his arm. 

Right place, then. He took a deep breath and knocked.

The door opened and, at the sight of him, Rose's mouth pinched into a hard line. "You are _not_ welcome," she growled, but instead of slamming the door (as she clearly wanted to) she glanced over her shoulder, looked back, and opened the door just enough for him to see the damage done to Ned.

It was ugly. Bruises were swelling on his jaw and cheek, a raw ring around his right wrist and all down his left forearm where he'd tried to shield himself. Some of the hits had torn skin, small bleeding rips that had already been cleaned, and one eye was red. The rest was hidden under a clean shirt and vest, peeking out through pushed-up sleeves and one undone button on his collar, and he held himself like he was trying not to breathe too hard. His eyes were flat in a blank face.

Ugly and painful, but not serious. He hadn't come close to dying. Not this time. 

Ned stayed in his chair, watching, for what felt like a lifetime before he got to his feet. He walked up to the door – he was willing to talk, that was something. Messy apologies tripped over themselves on Jacob's tongue, ready to fall out–

"I should've stayed put and I should've listened to you, you're the expert, and that's on me, but don't you _ever_ treat me like a _thing_ that has to be protected _ever_ again."

Jacob closed his mouth. "I brought you weapons."

Ned looked startled, like this hadn't gone according to his plan either, and after a long moment he stepped back to let Jacob in. 

Rose rounded on him the moment the door was shut. "You said you'd protect him!"

"I–" He strained to stay still, to keep his arms tight and still, fingers gripping the brim of his hat. _Don't argue._ "I know."

"You could have _killed_ him!"

"I'm sorry!"

"If you think for a _moment_ that–"

"Rose," said Ned. He touched her shoulder. It didn't calm her, but she took a deep breath and stepped back, glaring. Ned folded his arms and faced Jacob squarely. "I should have stayed put," he said again. "Everything else is on you."

"I know. I should have gotten us out of there sooner."

"You're lucky we got out at all."

"I know!" He threw out his hands, surrender and frustration– then stilled himself and took a breath. "Are you all right?"

Rose snorted and picked up a bloodied cloth from the table, throwing them in the water bowl. "I'll live," Ned said. "And–" He took a steadying breath. "And you did get us out of there. You did protect me, the rest of the time. I never showed my appreciation for that. Thank you."

Not that he wouldn't take what he could get here, but it was the most grudging thanks Jacob had ever heard from anyone, and that included himself. "You hate needing help, don't you?"

Air hissed out between Ned's teeth as he turned away, arms folded and shoulders hunched, flinching as something tender was jolted. "I couldn't have gotten those documents alone. What more do you want to hear?"

 _That you forgive me. That we're still friends._ "Will you take these?"

The cane-sword was the best that Evie hadn't taken with her, the one with a horse's head and green stones for eyes. The brass knuckles were harder to pick, what with Ned's smaller hands, but the crow ones had always been a bit of a tight fit for him, and easier to hide in a pocket than something sharp. He'd gone back to the train for them, sprinting when he realised that if he took too long Ned might go home, and he had no idea where that was.

Ned looked at them now, held out in open hands, and he nearly reached for one. "So you'll _let_ me go on my own jobs now?" he drawled. "No more 'staying in my office'?"

The strain of not snapping back almost hurt. Ned was testing him, had to be, or was out to make him suffer– And it didn't matter. "I shouldn't have said that," Jacob forced out through gritted teeth. "What more do _you_ want to hear?"

Ned's shoulders softened a bit. He tipped his head to the side, something like an acknowledgement, and took the weapons carefully. The brass knuckles he slipped on properly right away, testing the grip and the weight, but he looked at the cane-sword sceptically. "How old do you think I am?"

Jacob failed to not roll his eyes, took back the cane, and twisted off the top to show the dagger and the hook blade that snapped out from its base. For a moment, Ned's eyes like up just like when he saw the rope launcher. He snatched the stick and turned it upside down to inspect the hook. "How does it work?"

"There's a catch inside," said Jacob, cautiously hopeful. "Triggers when you take it apart."

But Rose, who had been seething silently since Ned had asked her for space, was not having this. "What do you think you're _doing_ , Ned? You're not a brawler. If you try you'll be hurt again next time, or worse."

"That's not– I don't mean you should fight," Jacob said quickly. "But if something happens – on a job, or on the street, anywhere – you can get away. Stun them and run."

Ned considered it. "That would have been helpful tonight," he said, and Jacob couldn't read his tone. He lifted the cane-sword. "I don't know how to use this."

"I can show you – if you want. I owe you."

"I owed you for the job, we're even there," Ned said automatically, and he turned the cane in small circles in his hand, wincing as he moved his shoulder too high. He looked at Rose, a question, and she sighed.

"It's your choice," she said. "For what it's worth I believe you meant well, Mr Frye, but that changes nothing about the results."

It was addressed to Jacob, but she was looking at Ned, pointedly at his bandaged wounds and battered face. Jacob got the feeling she was trying to avoid making Ned feel like he had to side with one of them. Ned nodded to her.

"I accept your apology," he said, turning back to Jacob. "Do you accept mine?"

For what? "Oh, not hiding. It doesn't matter." But it did to Ned, this ceremony of words, so he said, "Yes, of course."

Ned nodded. "That won't happen again," he promised. "And I'm sorry for the things I said. Most of them, anyway. I really am grateful for all that you did. You didn't have to."

"Yes I did. You're my friend, I wanted to." Jacob hesitated. "Can we– can we forget this ever happened? Go back to the way things were?"

Ned looked away and bit his lip, and Jacob's chest hurt. 

"You can't just run off with no explanation," Ned told him. "I'm a person, not a thing you can protect by hiding me away like a box of jewels."

"Who said anything about–?" Jacob stopped: Not important. "Of course you're a person," he repeated, and he tried not to sound sarcastic. "But there wasn't time to explain."

"Wasn't there?" Ned looked straight at him, through him, pinning him down. "You knew a lot more than you shared, didn't you? Where the safes were, who was where in other rooms and on other floors. Without seeing, more than hearing – you knew."

Damnit, Ned was _too_ clever. Jacob opened his mouth, searching for words to explain or deny or evade, but... He twitched his shoulders, the slightest of shrugs. "...Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He snorted. "You'd never believe it."

"I believe what I see. I saw you look through _walls_ , and you were right every time. I don't know how yet, and you are _going_ to tell me, but I believe that. It's not the point though: You had a decent cover with 'good hearing', so why didn't you tell me the police were back?"

"I didn't see them. I was... distracted."

That hung in the air between them, and under the darkening bruises, red tinted Ned's cheeks. Beside them, Rose was watching with narrow eyes, puzzled.

Ned looked away. "Jacob... you can't not share information on a job. We're in this together. I need you to trust me."

"I do. I'm sorry."

"I know."

Jacob searched his face, uncertainty twisting up his insides. "Then... you forgive me?" 

Ned looked surprised. "Yes. That's done, this is about the future."

"The future can _wait_ ," said Rose. "It's late, you're hurt, and you need to rest."

"I'm fine," said Ned, but he'd turned too sharply towards her, and almost swayed on his feet. 

"She's right," said Jacob, guilt flooding him all over again, "I should've waited till tomorrow."

"No, we needed this sorted," said Ned. He let Rose steer him past the narrow couch, where pillow and blankets had been laid out, and towards the bed. "I can sleep now."

Jacob wanted to say something, offers to take him home or to the train getting stuck in his throat, but Rose appeared at his arm and firmly escorted him to the door. "Do try not to be seen leaving, Mr Frye. My neighbours have enough to gossip about."

He looked past her to Ned, who was gingerly lowering himself to the mattress. "I'll bring you your papers from the office."

"I can do that," said Rose, hand on the doorknob. Jacob paused and looked at her, really _at_ her, and shook his head.

"You're taking care of him. Tell me what you need and I'll get it."

She looked surprised. From the bed, Ned rolled his eyes. "Mother hens, the both of you. Goodnight, Jacob."

And that... that was the best they could do, right now. "Goodnight."


	6. Leap of Faith, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned and Jacob have a fun day out climbing the city. There is a slight misunderstanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, an update! And it's only been... *checks watch* ...six months.
> 
> Sorry for taking so long: this has not been a good year for writing. Or, well, anything.
> 
> Part of the delay was because the plotting got completely overhauled; it was getting too weighed down by subplots, so now a lot of what was going to be in this fic has been split out for shorter fics under an umbrella series, **[The Wheels of London](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831084)** – please subscribe to it if you want to read everything I write for this 'verse. All will be Ned/Jacob at least in the background, but some will focus on other characters or relationships.
> 
> This was also a pretty delicate chapter to balance, and it got half a dozen rewrites and revisions and several whole scenes thrown out, but I'm finally happy with it. Hope you like.
> 
> Side note: I've been staring at the word "balustrade" for so long that I'm convinced it's not a word anymore. But I can't find any better way to describe the big wide flat stone railings that ring the roofs of many of these buildings, so sadly we'll all have to live with staring at "balustrade" forever and wondering what letters even are.

"Right, to your right."

For the first few weeks after the botched heist at Scotland Yard, things between Ned and Jacob had been carefully, almost aggressively normal. Ned had refused to change a single thing on his schedule to accommodate his injuries (though he suspected Rose had quietly moved some meetings to the office so he didn't have to run ragged across town all day), and Jacob, whenever he came by, was never able to hold Ned's gaze for more than a minute before his eyes slid to the mottled green patches on his face.

"Left, up."

After the aches and bruises faded, it got easier. Ned's mood lightened, and Jacob relaxed; his easy grins returned, and his teasing, and one day when he was excited about something he seized Ned by both shoulders, spun him round and declared him a genius. Ned had laughed.

On one quiet morning they had rented the Westminster fight club and Jacob had walked him through all the tricks of using his beautiful new cane sword, showed him how using it was different than just swinging a stick, and gleefully demonstrated all the best places to sink the blades into a bigger opponent. He peppered it with a few sly asides about how Ned was holding his broomstick (and there probably would have been a lot more if Clara hadn't appeared an hour in with a straight branch and a high chin), but there was an undercurrent to his grins that was all business, that flashed with grim worry whenever Ned made a dangerous mistake and wouldn't rest until it was corrected. Ned, much he was still chafing at having to be rescued in the first place, appreciated that.

"Right, up."

By the time the frosts had melted into spring, things felt normal again. He and Jacob met up three times a week to manage business, and at least twice more for fun. Ned came to cheer at the fight clubs with Clara as she studied the moves, and Jacob developed a habit of biting his tongue as he focused on picking whatever lock Ned challenged him with. Business talk, at least the legal parts, was sometimes over lunch at a pub or a restaurant, and if they picked a fancy enough one, sometimes they winked and compared what loot they'd pickpocketed on the way out.

"Left, to your left."

(But however relieved he felt, Ned was very, _very_ careful to avoid mention of the distraction that had sparked all this in the first place. His traitor mind kept wandering back to it – how it had felt to be crammed together like that, how his heart had raced, his breath had caught, how close they'd come to– But no, that couldn't happen. Then Jacob might find out about Netta, and Ned honestly had no idea what he would say, or do, and Ned refused to risk all they had together to indulge his stupid romantic daydreams.)

(Jacob never mentioned that night either.)

"Left up, right arm to your right."

Frowning, Ned held up one hand and one finger.

Jacob's laugh rang clear through the wall. "That's rude, you know."

Ned folded his arms and looked to Rose. She was standing in the doorway between their offices, able to see both men and watching Jacob like a hawk for any sign of cheating. He was on the other side of the wall, facing it, almost nose-to-spine with the books on her shelf. Both Ned and Rose had stood there earlier, checking for any little crack in the wood or a reflection or shadow or any other way to see into Ned's office, but there was nothing. Yet Jacob hadn't made a single mistake.

"Now you're tapping your foot."

Rose shook her head, baffled and not liking it. She looked to Ned. "We could try a blindfold."

"It doesn't work like that." Jacob poked his head round the corner. "It's like hearing something through a wall. But, well, seeing it."

"That makes no _sense_ ," Rose wailed, frustrated. Jacob spread his hands and shrugged.

Ned was about ready to give up on sense himself. "And you say it can be learned?"

Jacob's face scrunched. "Maybe? There's stories of people learning, but Evie thinks they were probably born with it too and didn't know till they tried. It's hard to do by accident. Needs practice."

"That's a shame, I can't think of a more useful skill." Ned sighed. "I think we're done here. Thanks for helping, Rose."

She nodded and stepped around Jacob to fetch the handbag on her desk. "I'll leave the two of you to tidy up; I have to be at Lady Whitehall's luncheon shortly. If it takes me longer than usual to lift her ring I'll go directly to the Benson meeting after."

"There's a Rook carriage outside if you like," Jacob offered, but Ned didn't need to look up to know she was shaking her head.

"Thank you, no. See you at Benson's, Ned."

There wasn't much out of place, just the coat rack, the two guest chairs that usually sat in front of Ned's desk, and Rose's wastepaper basket; they sorted it within a minute, and Jacob dusted his hands off loudly. "That was fun," he declared.

"What, me standing there like a scarecrow or you staring through a wall?"

He laughed. "The look on her face."

Ned swatted at him, but didn't bother try to actually hit. Rose's scepticism did them both more good than harm; she'd scowl at every mention of Jacob's second sight for a week and then work it into her plans for every future job. They just didn't know each other very well yet. "I'm surprised you kept something like that a secret for this long."

He shrugged and hopped up to sit on the desk, half an inch away from a contract for silk imports that Ned was revising to close the latest round of loopholes. "Lifetime of habit, I suppose. Care for lunch?"

"Can't, sorry," said Ned. He gestured to the contract with his pen. "I've got to finish this. Tomorrow?"

"It's payday for the Rooks, and I've got to guard the men collecting protection money in Kensington; they got jumped twice last month. No matter." He swung his legs off the edge for a moment, paused, and said, "I've a gift for you."

Ned slowed his hands and took his time tucking the contract away in his case before he looked up. The gold-inlaid cane wasn't enough of an apology? "A gift?" he said lightly. "What for?"

Not bothering to answer that with more than a roll of his eyes, Jacob dug into one of the deep pockets of his coat and pulled out a wrinkled slab of leather, folded around–

Ned leapt to his feet. "Is that a _rope launcher_?"

Jacob laughed and let him take it, and Ned shook out the gauntlet – plain, by Frye standards, no armour or gilding, just a row of thick straps round the arm – and examined the contraption sewn tightly into it. "Gas powered, right? And this adjusts how it lets the rope out?"

"Or how it anchors it, yes." Jacob pushed the small metal lever that switched between three gear positions. "First one's for going up, second's for a zipline, Aleck added the third one to release slowly for going down." He smirked. "So I take it you like it?"

Ned smiled sheepishly. "Well, I thought I'd be subtle." He rubbed his thumbs over the leather. "I, ah, wish I had something for you. I know," he said quickly, "I'm not counting favours anymore, I promise, but this is... this is rare."

"Mmm. Aleck and I only got mine in the first place because Kaylock kept a spare. Custom design. We made this one from scratch."

Ned automatically opened his mouth to protest – the effort, the expense, he wasn't sure what – but Jacob jabbed a finger at him. "Aleck _loves_ figuring out contraptions, and it gave me an excuse to get mine upgraded. Besides, I thought..." he faltered. Then he shrugged. "Thought it might be useful. You know, if you ever need to get out of a tight scrape."

For a moment Ned tensed, the wary, vigilant part of his head shouting _We can't talk about that!_ – but no, he was just scaring himself: Obviously this was Jacob's way of trying to put that night behind them, and Ned was more than happy to hurry it along.

And it was a _rope launcher_. The possibilities were endless.

He stopped fighting his smile and let it unfurl across his face, and (now that things were normal again there was no need to hold back) let himself clap his friend warmly on the arm. "It's perfect, Jacob. Thank you."

He beamed. "Knew you'd like it. You busy this Sunday?" When Ned blinked he added, "Thought I'd show you how to use it. We could climb a few buildings, go a few places we're not supposed to go...?"

Ned was grinning and nodding before Jacob finished speaking. "I can clear the day. Just... ah, pick someplace quiet, all right? I don't need half of London seeing me slip off the side of a roof. Wouldn't do much for my reputation."

"I'd catch you," Jacob promised easily, with a tone of mock-insult as if he'd been accused otherwise.

"I'm sure you would. Somewhere quiet, please."

Predictably, Jacob folded a few seconds later. He sighed loudly. "There'll be somewhere. How about a graveyard?"

Ned chuckled.

There was a spring in Jacob's step when he reached Babylon Alley that afternoon, and on a whim he vaulted over the railing rather than take the stairs – why not? It was barely more than a one storey drop down into the little corner of Whitechapel the kids had claimed. He landed a foot behind Clara and an inch behind one of the boys, who shrieked.

"Hush, Tim, it's only Mr Frye," chided Clara. "Though you _could_ be a little more considerate of the children, you know."

She held her chin high as she said it, though she was getting tall enough now that she almost didn't need to. Jacob folded his arms, eyed Tim and the two others who were backing off towards the steps, and said, "Remind me what it was you negotiated for last time? Oh, right – fixing up the entire city so they'll always have shelter. Isn't that considerate?"

"It was only three boroughs, and only the worst parts of them besides," Clara replied primly. Jacob clapped a hand to his forehead as dramatically as possible.

"Wait, I'm wrong – that was the time before! _Last_ time you asked to learn to fight off any adult, and to pass those lessons on to all your loyal followers."

"A necessary precaution in an unsafe world, especially as we are now fewer in number," she replied. Jacob grinned, conceding, and she nodded neatly. "Speaking of which, Mr Frye, during my _daily_ travels across _half the city_ to gather intelligence for you, I happened to overhear a certain Mr Fawcett discussing plans to sabotage your paper mill. They intend to sneak in tomorrow night and misalign all the rollers so the pressing will be spoiled."

Fawcett was a competitor who had a mill in east Southwark, and who had been on the edge of bankruptcy ever since he'd been forced to pay adult workers fair wages. Until now he hadn't done anything worse than be a sour Scrooge about it, but this was all the excuse Jacob needed to show him exactly why _no one_ messed with the Rooks. Besides, he'd probably get another factory out of it.

He grinned. "Excellent work, Clara – as usual."

Smug was fast becoming a normal look on her. "Of course, I was fortunate that this discussion took place in Mr Fawcett's dining room, after nightfall, and that there was a tree near enough to their window to climb without being seen. Had they decided to chat in the sitting room, or in daylight, I wouldn't have been able to follow closely enough to hear it all."

Jacob opened his mouth – then stopped and narrowed his eyes. She was getting at something, and if he said a word she'd find a clever way to make it sound like his idea.

So he waited. Clara barely fidgeted, but Jacob had a dozen more years practice of waiting in silence. After half a minute she added, "I would be far more effective at gathering intelligence if I could climb walls like you do."

He laughed, hard – it bubbled up in his belly and into his cheeks till he was nearly doubled over. _Of course_. He should have known this was coming: Clara never met an advantage she didn't try to conquer. What next, an initiate's cloak and her own hidden blade? No; if she knew the Brotherhood existed, she'd have them already.

He kept chuckling, hand over face, and Clara frowned, insulted. She put her hands on her hips and demanded, "Well, why not? You know I am loyal to you, Mr Frye, and sincere in my motivations–"

"Yes, yes, you're always so serious." He took a deep breath or two to stifle the laughs, then looked at her and shrugged. "Well, why not? If I don't you'll probably just try on your own anyway."

Her eyes gleamed, though she otherwise kept up the image of cool calm. "I already have, but proper instruction is always wise. How are you able to keep a grip on such narrow ledges without your own weight causing your fingers to slip?"

Jacob opened his mouth, but no words came out. He... just... did? He couldn't recall _not_ knowing how to balance his weight close to the wall, or how to anchor his fingers, how to brace his feet or kick off to push himself higher. It had happened, of course; he remembered falls and scrapes and a few memorable weeks when he'd cracked two ribs and even breathing hurt, but nothing about the slipups themselves.

What had Father said, when he was teaching them? No, forget him – what had Granny said? By the time Father had finally walked into their lives he and Evie were already climbing; Jacob had tried to impress him the day he arrived by balancing on the highest tip of Granny's rooftop (it hadn't worked; all Father said was "get down, boy!"). But when they were little, back when everything was a game and they were barely allowed to throw dull knives, Granny had made them a climbing course around her stables and barn, using chunks of wood nailed between the drainpipes they were too small to jump between, and the fences of the horse paddocks were long balance beams they had to run in between the buildings. But they'd started small, on ladders and in trees, until they were strong enough.

"You've got to practice pulling yourself up by the arms until they don't shake. Did you fall?"

She scowled. "It didn't hurt."

"You don't learn to climb until you know how to fall," Jacob said. Quoted, actually: Granny had snapped that at them the day he had sprained his wrist falling out of a tree, and never stopped saying it after, every time they wanted to try a new trick. After he'd had healed Granny had piled all the spare hay into a heap on the barn floor and marked out a big square with rope directly under the loft – then, later, as they got older, outside where they could jump from the roof – narrowing the squares till they were coffin-sized as he and Evie got better at landing in the targets. They'd entertained themselves for months that way, and whenever Father took them to visit the farm after they moved to Crawley, even in the middle of winter, they would always run off to the barn for at least one afternoon to practice. And to throw each other into the hay.

So, with Clara in tow, Jacob set off in search of a hay cart. It didn't take long, and once they (mostly Jacob) (well, Jacob and some Rooks) had hauled it back to Babylon Alley, and Jacob had positioned it just right, not too far to the wall but not so close as to be easy, he climbed onto the stone post between rails, crouched, and held out a hand to Clara. She grabbed the rail with both hands and pulled herself up, then carefully clambered over until she was standing over the drop with both hands tight on the rail behind her.

"Right," she said stiffly. "I... am going to jump. There's nothing else to it, right?" she asked quickly.

He shook his head. "Not really. Evie and I turn in the air to land flat, but this isn't so high that you need to." She frowned. He added: "You won't go through the cart floor if you land feet-first."

Clara nodded. Taking a deep breath, she looked over to the stairs, where several other children were watching eagerly. Then, chin high, she leapt off the brick ledge and landed in the cart.

Hay puffed up into the air and she jumped up straight away, a huge smile on her face. "I did it!" she cried, and the kids cheered.

"Very good!" Jacob applauded, and she beamed. Several of them scrambled to climb over to Jacob's side, shoving each other to get over the rail first.

"One at a time!" Clara commanded as she climbed out. "Form a line, or I will empty all the hay myself!"

Sulky muttering followed, and Jacob hopped lightly down to the ground. Another puff of hay exploded beside him as a boy landed, and Clara, now standing at the foot of the steps and watching a very long line form, sighed. "Well, that was very instructive, Mr Frye. What next?"

Jacob blinked at her. "Ah. Well, you can practice from different spots, I suppose; use the stairs, move the cart, that sort of thing. Just don't go too high yet."

She frowned. "That's all? What about how to hold on to narrow ledges?" She gestured to the wall of bricked-in windows towering over their heads.

"You can't learn it all in a day, Clara," he scoffed. "Evie and I spent years climbing trees before we managed walls."

"Miss Evie said you were small children when you started. I have a lot of catching up to do."

He rolled his eyes. "I can't believe _I'm_ saying this, but be patient, Clara."

"I have too much to do to be patient."

Jacob sighed. "Tell you what: When you can land right in the middle of that hay cart on every try, and climb back up the wall to where you started in ten seconds, then I'll show you a trick for holding on to ledges. All right? Consider it a challenge."

"I accept. I expect this will take no more than a week."

 _Bloody hell_. Jacob hoped Ned wasn't going to be like this.

Come Sunday morning, Ned stood looking up the side of the building, higher than it had ever seemed before, and took a deep breath. The gauntlet was tight around his arm; uncomfortably tight really, like iron rings, but that was good, he reminded himself: if he lost his grip, it would keep him dangling safely in the air.

He'd checked and double-checked that the little lever was locked into the lift setting, and he'd practiced his aim these last few days, shooting at bottles across the room, then on railings, then up on the rafters until he shattered glass every time. He aimed carefully, checking and re-checking the angles, making sure he was standing just far enough from the wall to be pulled up without scraping the sides–

"For God's sake, Ned, it's only a few storeys up."

Scowling, Ned glared over his shoulder at Jacob, who was leaning casually against the wall. With effort, he let out a breath and shook out his arms. "Sorry. I've been looking forward to this, I want to get it right."

They were at St Martin-in-the-fields, just north of Charing Cross, and the parishioners inside were busy singing hymns, kindly leaving the narrow street to the north of the church empty for their use; Jacob said there was a wide flat ledge ringing the roof before it sloped up, easy to walk on, and the trees over this path sheltered them from most views, perfect for a first go. He'd been gleeful when they'd met up this morning, and Ned felt bad to see that some of it had drained out during the wait.

He set his shoulders and took aim again. "You're going to look very small from up there," he declared, and fired.

Later, he would tell Rose that there was nothing, _nothing_ like the feeling of the rope suddenly pulling so hard you felt like your arm was being ripped off. He grunted, hanging on as he was yanked into the air, barely remembering to kick off the wall as he bounced up along it.

There was also nothing, _nothing_ on this good green earth as amazing as flying up to the sky, bursting through leaves into sunlight and laughing defiance at the ground. It was pure freedom; a taste of having wings.

All too soon it was over, and Ned only scrambled a little to hang on to the balustrade that ringed the rooftop. Behind him he heard scuffling, boots and gloves on stone, and by the time he'd hauled himself over the top, Jacob was perched lightly beside him, smiling and with barely a glint of sweat on his brow. Ned could have pushed him right back off.

Instead he looked around. They were only a few floors up, lower than some of the neighbouring buildings, and in truth the view from Ned's office wasn't much higher, but it was _different_ standing on the roof, with no brick or grimy old windows between him and the sky. The air was fresh and cold, nipping at his ears and cheeks, and the sun was warm on his back, glinting off the steeple. It was windy too, more than he'd expected, and he was glad he'd listened to Jacob and worn his scarf despite the nice weather.

Ned rested his hands on the edge and looked down: the sheltered street was a little grey line half hidden by leafy branches. The wall that had separated it from the townhouses beyond was a narrow strip past which people were wandering with no idea of who was above them. He could chuck pebbles at them entirely unnoticed if he wanted. He didn't, but he could.

"Feels good, eh?"

Ned realised he was grinning broadly. "I see why you do this so much, even when you don't need to."

Jacob hopped down and took gentle hold of Ned's gauntlet arm, turning it over and clinically checking that the grappling arrow was firmly attached to the end of the rope. (Ned's hand didn't tingle when Jacob touched him. It didn't. Fine, it did, but it was just that the gauntlet was too tight.) Jacob had mentioned that he checked his own for wear and tear each day when he got back to his train, but he'd done this twice already this morning, and Ned didn't think it was to reassure _him_.

He didn't mind. Jacob was a warm shield against the wind, and thrilling as that brief flight had been, Ned's knees were a tad wobbly. He'd get used to it, but there was no rush: they had all day.

"Back down next, then?" he said, peering over the edge. It didn't seem as high as it had before, but firing the anchor shot would be harder at this angle.

"Thought we'd try something else first," said Jacob. He skipped past Ned towards the front of the church. "Come on!"

Ned followed more slowly past the end of the walkway, out to where there was no railing to keep them from sliding off. Jacob was already at the far edge, hanging on a flagpole. He swung and swept an arm out towards– "The National Gallery!" he declared, voice carrying in the wind. "Excellent views and lots of flat roofs. You can run the whole block on that roof."

Ned cautiously made his way up the slope; it wasn't too bad, more like a steep hill, but he placed his feet one at a time and watched for loose tiles. The flagpole was reassuringly straight and a solid thing to hold on to, and once he was steady he looked around.

The view was impressive. All of Trafalgar Square was spread out before them. People and carriages made their way around it, voices and the clip-clop of hooves hushed by the distance. The fountains sparkled in the morning light, sprays of water bursting over the paving stones that were still wet from rain the night before. The shadow of the church fell onto the Gallery, and a cluster of birds hopped around on the nearest corner, chirping merrily. Ned breathed it in, smiling, and from the corner of his eye he saw Jacob watching him with a proud grin. "Quite a view," he said mildly. "Is this why you picked St Martin's? Showing off the best view in town?"

"Oh, this isn't the best," he said airily, "not even one _of_ the best." And he waited, but Ned decided not to ask; no doubt it was somewhere much higher, and he wasn't quite ready for that yet.

He looked towards the flat roofs across the way and carefully hooked his elbow around the flagpole so he could change his rope launcher to the zipline setting. "This one doesn't pull you off your feet, right?"

Jacob shook his head. "I usually jump soon as it hits, but you can wait long as you want. Ready?"

Ned nodded and took aim, made sure his face was well clear of the second arrow that shot backwards to anchor the line – it would hit the steeple – and fired. The rope jerked his arm, but not too hard, and he heard the back arrow land solidly. Ahead the rope shot out and landed a little lower than he'd meant it to; he'd misjudged the drop over distance, but only a little. The gas plume that burst out with it faded into the air.

Jacob tested the line with a tug; it looked taut, but Ned checked it himself before putting any weight on it. The rope angled down, he'd be able to slide along it, and as he stepped up to the edge, his heart thudded, excitement buzzing in his toes.

He looked back at Jacob and grinned. "You coming?"

Jacob fired his own line, parallel to Ned's, and took hold of it. "Ready when you are."

Ned took a breath and jumped.

Wind whipped through his hair and nearly blew his hat off as the world rushed at him like trains on all sides, streaks of colour blurring as he flew. The sharp air stung his cheeks but it didn't matter, he was _flying_ and _holy mother_ it was _amazing_. He cheered wordlessly into the wind, a whoop of glee, and behind him Jacob laughed.

He remembered to brace himself and catch his weight on his feet as they reached the end, bending his knees to slow down. He kept a tight grip on the rope, as this time there was nothing anchoring his gauntlet to the wall, and that turned out to be a problem: the end of his rope, which had seemed only a little low from where he'd stood on the church, was more than a foot from the top of the roof, and Ned couldn't climb the rest of the way up a wall like this even if he could let go for a moment without falling.

"Uh, Jacob? A little help?"

Jacob, of course, had aimed perfectly, and was hanging by one hand from the edge of the roof, his line already cut. He turned, his eyes widened, and half a second later he was dancing down the side of the building to Ned's side. Somehow his toes found purchase, he held on to the stonework with one hand, and hooked his other arm around Ned's back and ribs; his palm pressed tight against Ned's side. "Grab on."

Carefully, Ned leaned his weight into Jacob's arm, then snatched his hands free of the zipline and threw them over Jacob's shoulders, locking them around his neck. So secured, Jacob moved his arm from Ned's back, aimed up– and then there was the puff of the rope firing and the yank of the gauntlet pulling them up the last two feet to the roof.

The frightened birds flew away.

Jacob held him tightly and hauled them both over the edge. Ned felt his feet touch solid stone, but it took a moment before he was ready to let go. He couldn't say why: he didn't _feel_ afraid, not with Jacob's arms solid around him, but his heart was pounding.

"You all right?"

Ned looked up, realised his arms were still around Jacob's neck, and quickly stepped back. "Yes. Thank you. That, ah... that could have ended badly." Rubbing at his face, Ned took several more steps and turned peer over the edge of the balustrade. "I think going down would be a good thing to learn now. Could be useful, you know."

He didn't look over his shoulder, but he could hear Jacob wait where he was another few moments before he walked over. He barely glanced down the side of the building. "I haven't used that setting much," he said, adjusting his gauntlet. "I usually climb down. Or jump."

"For now, I'd really rather you didn't."

"I won't."

Jacob bit his lip and looked over the edge again, then sat and leaned out, twisting his arm to aim his gauntlet at it from nearly the same angle as if shooting from the ground; it buried itself deep, and when he tugged on the slack rope, he seemed satisfied. "Try it this way."

"Seems incredibly safe," Ned said dryly, and took a steadying breath. He climbed onto the edge near Jacob and adjusted his gauntlet, but didn't go nearly so far over before he fired. Jacob hovered, keeping his free hand within easy catching distance, but Ned had climbed enough drainpipes to know how to lower himself over the edge safely. The strain on his arm was nearly the same as when it had yanked him up, and he wrapped his fingers tight round the rope before carefully triggering the release on his forearm.

The rope went slack– he dropped, and for a second fear shot through his chest, but it locked after only a few feet, and it took only a handful of those jerky, rough drops to reach the ground. Jacob was beside him, half a foot lower, the entire way.

Ned released the rope and flexed his hands, and nodded up at the wall. "Hell of a thing to get used to," he declared. "But good. I can do this." He thought for a minute, looking up and around while Jacob freed his own line. "I want to practice up and down here a bit longer, but after that..." he looked to Jacob, "maybe one of those best sights you mentioned?"

Jacob grinned.

Ned looked up – and up and up and _up_ – and folded his arms. "No."

At the foot of Nelson's column, arms spread wide in presentation, Jacob faltered. "Why not?" His brow furrowed. "You're not going to tell me you're afraid of heights, are you?"

"I like heights, as you've seen. Great views. _That_ is death."

Jacob groaned. "Come on, Ned..."

"No."

"It's just like climbing the church."

"Then I'm not missing anything."

"The view is incredible."

"I'll take your word for it." Ned looked Jacob in the eye, trying to be firm without being rude. "You won't talk me into it, so stop trying."

Jacob sighed loudly. "All right," he said, slumping. "If you're sure."

"Very," said Ned. Jacob was looking up the side of the column with a mild sort of wistfulness, and against his better judgement Ned added, "If you want to go, I'll wait."

Jacob started to shake his head, then paused and looked up. "You're sure?"

"I need a rest anyway," said Ned, and gave him a little shove. "Go." Jacob grinned.

"Won't be long," he promised.

Ned turned and made his way to the nearest fountain, glancing back a few times to watch Jacob kick his way up to the top of the pedestal, and fire again from the base of the statue. It seemed odd that no one else in the square had noticed, but then, there weren't many people around to begin with, just two or three little groups and a newsboy: most were still in church, and the rest were busy at the market stalls.

Mist blew off of the fountain, pleasantly cool on Ned's face as he wandered over and sat down; he was sweaty under his warm clothes and his arms were aching, but it was a good sort of ache. They had zipped up and down half a dozen buildings in the neighbourhood, each with different obstacles to navigate round (windowsill flowerbeds had been fun), practicing until Ned felt reasonably confident that he could get up and down most buildings at speed – though he felt a lot better when Jacob was there, especially on the way down. The only thing they hadn't tried yet was climbing upwards on a sloping zipline, but they had the whole afternoon to find a good spot for that.

Jacob was perched on Nelson's hat now, turning slowly in a crouch, lit sharply by the midday sun. The view would certainly be amazing, but the idea of balancing on such a narrow spot turned Ned's stomach. He hoped Jacob wasn't too disappointed.

Atop the column, Jacob had turned full circle, and was waving down with his whole arm, tiny from this distance. Ned waved back, then furrowed his brow as Jacob pointed down at something at the base of the column. Ned looked back up and shielded his eyes, squinted; somewhere, an eagle screamed–

And Jacob jumped off.

Ned's guts turned to ice and plummeted through his shoes. He slipped on the tiles – he was running, when did he stand up? – heart in his throat and eyes fixed on Jacob as he fell, dropped, a speck against the sky– He tripped, stumbled, lost sight of him– There was a _thump_ – He wrenched himself to his feet, looked round frantically – the body, where was the body–

A pile of leaves in a cart rustled and Jacob hopped out, easy as you please, and dusted off a few bits of green. "Ned!" he said cheerily. "Told you it–"

" _What_ the _hell_." It came out cracked, voice thin and strangled, limbs frozen on the spot. Jacob frowned.

"You all right?"

"That was _back-breaking_ ," he rasped, "how are you not dead?"

Jacob glanced back the column. "I'm fine, I do it all the time. Ned, you're white as a sheet."

His hands were shaking. He wanted to reach out, touch, check him over, feel the warmth and breath moving under his hands, to be _sure_ – "Don't do that to me!" he snapped instead. "Don't..." He covered his face, sucking in a ragged breath, forcing himself to breathe deep and slow to steady his racing heart. "I need a minute."

Jacob looked stricken. "Bloody hell, Ned, I'm sorry. I didn't think."

"You're one of the few good things I've got in this world, you idiot, don't take that away from me. I can't lose..." He grit his teeth, got a hold of himself. "Just don't."

A warm hand touched his back, slipped up to his shoulder to gently squeeze, an apology, and Ned leaned into it for a moment– before habitual fears kicked in and he automatically pulled away, looking quickly round in case somebody had seen. There was no one nearby. Jacob let him go anyway.

He shook himself, cleared his throat, and looked up at his friend with what he hoped was some sort of composure. "So when you said you jump instead of climb down... that's what you meant."

Abashed, Jacob scratched the back of his neck. "Well... it's not always that high."

"It'd be hard to find anywhere else in London _that_ high," Ned retorted, but he couldn't quite keep his voice from catching. Jacob flinched.

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you."

"I wouldn't have believed you. I still don't. You should be _dead_." The image flashed in his mind again, the small shape falling, the sickening thump, the sight he'd been sure he'd find, splattered blood and bone– He wrenched his thoughts away.

Jacob was quiet, watching him, watching his face. "Let's have lunch," he said, and there was nothing light about it. Ned shook his head.

"I'm not hungry."

"Humour me."

Too tired to argue, Ned let Jacob lead him past the market, a light touch on his elbow steering him here and there, to a bench on the far side of the square where even fewer people milled about. Ned sat down heavily while Jacob whistled over a few urchins and sent them to fetch bread and apples. He dropped his head into his hands and rested his arms on his thighs. "I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?" he said to his knees. "You weren't in any danger; you wouldn't be stupid enough to jump if it would've killed you."

"You weren't wrong," Jacob said softly. "It'd kill anyone else. Most of 'em, anyway."

He was quiet a minute.

"It's a bloodline, Ned. Very old. Me and Evie, some others: it makes us stronger, heal faster, harder to hurt in the first place. I don't know how it works. Evie's been studying it for years and isn't any closer to a scientific explanation, but..." He shrugged. "Still true."

Ned sat back heavily. He felt like he was watching all this from a distance. "I suppose that's also why you can see through walls." Because that was a normal thing in his world now. Somehow.

"And dodge bullets. Did you know we can dodge bullets?" Jacob said. Delight stole his face for a moment, and a little of it seeped into Ned; he felt a small smile tug at the corner of his lip.

"Do I want to know how many bullets would have killed you by now if you couldn't?" he asked. Jacob paused.

"Probably not, no."

Ned let out a small chuckle; it was dry, hurt a bit, but it warmed his bones. The urchins were back, and Ned reached out to snag one of the apples while Jacob paid them. He toyed with it while Jacob tore off a chunk of bread and cheese, feeling the waxy skin of the fruit under his fingertips. "I'm sorry I... overreacted."

"I should've thought it through," Jacob said quietly. "Forgive me?"

"Always." He bit into the apple – _heaven_ , sweet and juicy – and stretched his legs out, feeling a little better. "Anything else you want to tell me?"

He didn't really mean it, but Jacob looked at him seriously, considered for half a second at most, then said, "The queen knighted us for saving her life when Starrick tried to kill her to take over the empire."

Ned blinked.

Like so many things Jacob said, it was so flippant that he had to be either flat out lying or telling the plain truth. This time, Ned decided (and, maybe, a lot more times in the past than he'd realised) it was probably true. "Is that why you hated him so much?"

"Nah. He had to die – he was awful, he hurt people, used them to get power – but hate wasn't part of it."

"And yet you came to London specifically to hunt him down." At Jacob's surprised look, Ned rolled his eyes. "I'm not stupid."

"No, but most people don't pay that much attention. When did you know?"

Ned shrugged; honestly, he couldn't put a finger on it – sometime after they'd conquered Southwark maybe. "You two were systematic. One borough after another, you never stopped, and the Starrick companies started falling like dominoes soon as you arrived. The timing matched too well to be coincidence."

Jacob laughed. "Christ, Ned, you really are bloody clever."

"To be fair, I had insider knowledge," he said, but Jacob waved that off. Ned considered him. "It worked, by the way."

"Hm? What did?"

"Distracting me." Ned waited till Jacob looked at him, then nodded back at the column and smiled. "It worked."

Caught, Jacob grinned only a little sheepishly. "And now you know how I, _of all people_ ," he quoted, teasing, "got knighted." Ned snorted and chuckled.

He got to his feet. "Come on, _Sir_ Jacob, what other sights have you got to show off to me?"

Charing Cross Station was half a block away. They zipped up to the normal tiled roof of the entrance and climbed onto the glass panels over the tracks, peering down at the benches and chandeliers from above. Ned didn't try walking on the single metal beam that ran along the length of the station, and Jacob didn't suggest it; they stood at the edge, looking down at the little coloured shapes of people milling about, and tossed pebbles at the tracks to see who jumped.

Next they went to Temple Church, and though the top of the dome was too narrow to climb and the main roof too steep, the ledge ringing the roof was flat and wide enough to stand comfortably side by side. The view of the park, and the Thames beyond, was lovely.

Then they went to Canon Street Station and zipped up to its huge curved glass roof from the tracks. There was no flat brick roof here to retreat to, and when Ned needed help to balance as they walked across the curved roof, he took Jacob's offered hand.

Then, St Paul's.

Ned was excited, and didn't bother to hide it. The cathedral was the most splendid sight in the city, one he'd seen from so many angles since he arrived, and many times before that in newspapers and paintings. St Paul's was always the first thing Mother and Father's visitors would describe about London, and when he'd climbed on the boat the day he'd finally left Netta behind, he'd had a worn, folded drawing of it in his pocket.

It was still intimidating, staring up at the massive wall with its carved arches, up so high he had to bend backwards to aim, but as soon as his rope was anchored he forgot everything but the thrill of flying.

It was _amazing_ , no less so for having done it dozens of times already today. Better, even: he flew higher than on those small buildings, longer, laughing at the sky again. From just below, Jacob's voice echoed him.

Ned's aim had been true this time, and he was able to haul himself over the edge and onto the roof almost as fast as Jacob. With his feet firmly planted, after pausing only exactly as long as needed to check his gauntlet, he looked around.

They were on the northwest side, and though the dome was at nearly the other end of the building, it was _huge_ , so much bigger than Ned had imagined, and he felt his eyes widen as he craned his neck, marvelling at the sight. "You must be able to see the Channel from there," he breathed.

"Oh..." Behind him, Jacob sounded embarrassed. "Um, we can't get up there, Ned." Ned turned round; he looked apologetic. "The curve is too steep; rope launcher can't get an anchor. I always have to climb, and if we climb, I can't catch you."

That was too sobering a thought to argue with, though Ned wouldn't pretend he wasn't disappointed. Still, Jacob knew what he was doing, and he wasn't going to argue. "Then where are we going?"

Relief flittered across Jacob's face. He gestured behind him, at the north bell tower, and Ned looked up. It wasn't as high as the dome, to be sure, but higher certainly than anywhere else in the borough; high enough for a wonderful view. The sides were straight too. "How high can we get?"

Jacob grinned and started walking, and Ned caught up in two paces. "Most of the way; the very top is too narrow, but the columns under it, above the bell" – he pointed – "they're all open, fantastic view, you can see most of the city. It's worth it, I promise."

"I don't doubt it," said Ned. A playful mood struck him, and he let it. He grinned and cried, "Let's go!" and sprinted ahead the last dozen steps.

"Not _fair_ , Wynert!" shouted Jacob. He caught up within seconds, but Ned had already reached the base of the tower and was leaning on it, laughing.

"You lost."

"Ha! And you accused Bobby of fixing races," said Jacob. He shoved Ned's shoulder lightly. Ned grinned.

"Race you up?"

Jacob flung his arm up and disappeared before Ned could begin to aim. Above, Jacob appeared perched on the crest of the roof, looking down with mock disappointment. "Is that the best you can do?"

Ned aimed, fired and flew, but he was slower to pull himself up over the edge; Jacob waited till he was safely on his feet before flying up the next stage, kicking off the columns that surrounded the bells and up to a ledge, beyond which Ned could see nothing. Ned followed his path exactly, and when he reached the top Jacob was crouched by the ledge, grinning, and offered Ned a hand.

He took it, and was pulled up into a tiny cathedral of light.

There were arches on all sides, ringing a large flat stone circle in the centre and jutting out at corners to showcase the view. At first Ned couldn't see the city beyond through the haze of sunlight that soaked it, but his eyes adjusted, and then he saw _everything_.

There was the smokestack from Whitechapel's brewery, the spire of St. Mary Matfelon, and St. Bart's hospital. A few steps further around the tower and he could see Canon Street Station, Charing Cross beyond that, and the peak of Temple Church. There was Big Ben, and the faint shape of Westminster Abbey. Further round again and there was the Thames, glinting and glittering with toy boats, and all the way round, just peeking past the south side of the dome, the column of the Monument rose out of the haze.

Awed, Ned spun and strode into the middle of the space, looking back towards Whitechapel as if it might have disappeared, but no: He could see it, and four other boroughs besides, at once. All of London, spread at his feet. He turned slowly on the spot, taking it in, all of it, as Jacob watched with a brilliant smile. 

"This is..." Ned shook his head, eyes caught by yet another landmark in the distance. "Wow. This is really something, Jacob."

He beamed as Ned came full circle, and stepped up to clap him on the shoulder. "Knew you'd like it."

Ned smiled at him, warm despite the breeze. He didn't say anything; there was no need. Jacob was watching him, a soft sort of happiness all over his face, and for a moment, somehow, in that windy stone tower, Ned was completely content.

Maybe he held on to that moment too long, kept their eyes locked too long; whatever it was, it was long enough that Jacob must have taken it as permission, an invitation – next thing he knew, Jacob was kissing him.

It was warm and solid and dizzying and _holy mother of God_ it was _fantastic_.

Ned's fingers threaded themselves through Jacob's hair and round the nape of his neck – he didn't remember reaching up, didn't care – and pulled him closer, kissing back with every scrap of breath in him. Jacob's hands slid over his back, his ribs, wrapped round him till they were tight. Ned could feel the tiny scratch of bristles under his palms, the smile under his lips, the slide of skin under his fingertips...

But that wary voice in the back of his mind, the rational and cautious one, always on guard, that had protected him for so long, jumped up and shrieked _bad idea bad idea bad idea stop stop STOP!_

"Stop."

Ned pulled away roughly, breathing hard, and reached back blindly to the cool stone of a column. Jacob blinked. "What?"

"We can't do this." Ned scrunched his eyes shut and stamped down _hard_ on his traitor thoughts, grit his teeth and damnit, he could _taste_ – No. No.

Jacob glanced out through the arches, at the tiny rooftops beyond. "No one can see."

Ned shook his head and turned his back, rubbing his face, trying to wrestle back his control. "It's a bad idea."

Jacob snorted and stepped round till they were face to face again, lightly touching his arms. "You loved it," he said. With two fingers he nudged Ned's chin up, leaned in– but Ned ducked away.

" _No_. We– can't."

A flash of anger and deep, deep hurt darted across Jacob's face. " _Why_?" he cried. "Because I'm a man?"

"No!" Ned grabbed his arm, slowed him down, because that wasn't– "No," he said again, steadier. "Never that. It's not you."

Jacob looked confused, wounded, and it was painful to see. Ned swallowed and let go of his arm, and tried to sort out the whirl of thoughts in his head.

"Then what?" said Jacob, quieter. "Why not?"

Ned shook his head. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to think. This shouldn't have happened, how did he let this happen? They'd been having such a good day, having so much fun – the scare at the column aside, and even then, Jacob had gone out of his way to be reassuring, offered another one of his strange secrets, been patient and kind, and had let Ned lead in all things, taking him to all the places he knew Ned would love most, trying to make the day perfect... oh. Oh, how could he have been so blind? The gift of the gauntlet – Jacob hadn't been trying to put that night behind them at all, he'd been offering to repeat it.

And now what? This was exactly the kind of risk he hadn't been willing to take and, stupidly, he'd made things worse. Jacob would never believe him anymore if he said he didn't _want_... But no, this could still be salvaged: Jacob had been the one to check if anyone could see, clearly he knew how bad things could get for men like them, surely he'd understand that Ned couldn't risk everything he'd worked for, even... even for kisses like _that_. He had to. He would, Ned just had to find the right way to say it to him–

"It this because you don't have a cock?"

Ned froze. Something seized up in his chest. "What?" he said, forcing his voice steady. "That's ridiculous."

"Oh come on," Jacob scoffed. "I grew up wrestling with Evie. I'm not stupid either."

 _He knows he knows he KNOWS–_ Ned's breath sped up; he had to clench his teeth till they ached to slow it. He sucked in a big breath, held it, held it till he steadied, and let it out. He braced himself looked up. "I know you're not stupid," he said warily. "So... what now?"

"I'm not going tell anyone if that's what you're thinking," said Jacob, offended. "Is this really what's got you all wound up? I don't care what's in your trousers, Ned. Cock or cunt, I don't care, I like both–"

"I am not BOTH!" Ned snapped, and Jacob actually jumped back from the force of it.

He held up his hands up in faint surrender. "All right," he said carefully. "You're not both." He glanced down, then back to Ned's eyes. "Um... how?"

Ned took a breath, straightened his coat, looked him square in the eye. "I'm a man."

"...I'm confused."

And this, _this_ was what Ned couldn't bear to deal with, not again. Maybe if he'd seen it coming, if he'd had time to decide to take the risk, to plan what to say, to have a _hope_ of making a man like Jacob understand a man like him– But he hadn't, he wasn't ready, wasn't prepared, and he couldn't...

"I have to go." He strode straight to the edge of their little sanctuary, fingers shaky as he switched his gauntlet to descent mode, looked for a place to anchor it–

Jacob caught up, caught his arm. "Wait, Ned–"

"Not now."

"Ned–"

"I _can't handle_ this now," cried Ned, and maybe it was the words or something in his face or voice but Jacob backed off, nearly to the edge of the ledge. Ned breathed carefully, looked him in the eye. "I need to go. If you really want to know–"

"Yes!"

"Then give me _time_."

If possible, Jacob looked even more confused. Confused and hurt and sad and all those fragile things Ned couldn't bear to see. He reached up and laid a hand on Jacob's chest, palm flat, some odd attempt at comfort. "It's not you. But I can't do this. I'm going down with or without help, though... I'd feel a lot better with you there."

Jacob's eyes bore into his, lips open to say more... but he didn't. He nodded tightly and moved, briskly and efficiently, to a corner where their gauntlets could get easy anchors.

Ned took a breath and followed.

The ride down was quiet. Jacob kept a close eye on Ned, painfully aware of every inch between them. He didn't know what to think. Ned was a mystery he'd enjoyed solving until now. But now...

Now he might have ruined everything, snogging him like that. Now Ned – brilliant, witty, wonderful Ned – was skittering around him like a spooked horse, and he didn't understand _why_.

Words gathered in his mouth, cramming themselves impatiently as their feet touched the ground, a mess of _I'm sorry_ and _don't understand_ and _won't tell_ and _please explain this to me_ , but all that got out was "Ned–" before:

"Mr Frye!" a small voice shrieked, hurrying their way, and Jacob clenched his fists, air hissing out between his teeth. _Not now..._

"Mr Frye! Mr Frye, it's Clara!" another child shouted, and they stumbled over each other as they ran up. "She's hurt real bad!"

Cold shot through Jacob's chest; beside him he saw Ned's head whip sharply round. "What happened?"

The kids were panting, leaning on their knees. "Dunno sir. Word's goin' round. Two grownup Rooks took her to 'ospital. They said t'find you. Didn' say nothin' more sir."

"Which hospital?"

"Bart's is closest," said Ned just as the other kid said, "Saint B's, sir."

Jacob sprinted toward the road and the nearest carriage, a parked hansom. He leapt on, and in the breaths between loosing the reins and spurring the horses, Ned caught up and climbed in.

They took off at a breakneck pace. St Paul's, and its sanctuary, faded behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry! I didn't want to end it here, but there was no better place to split this too-long chapter. If you're worried, the tags have been updated to cover the next chapter and, spoiler: this is a happy story and I adore Clara. No fridging brilliant women here.
> 
> The second half of this chapter should take a _little_ less time than this one did; big chunks of it are already written, but it's got the same delicacy of moods and emotions that delayed this one a lot, so I won't even try to estimate a date. After that, the epilogue!


	7. Leap of Faith, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for a description of Clara's injuries; if you're squicked by broken bones, there's one bit where you'll see it coming; skip to the start of the next paragraph and you'll have missed nothing important.
> 
> I decided not to try get all the details of Victorian hospitals right, so I've glossed a lot of it and hopefully there's nothing too jarringly wrong in the rest.
> 
> [Chloroform](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chloroform#Anesthetic) was used as an anaesthetic from the 1840s (apparently Queen Victoria used it when giving birth to her last two children) until they realised how toxic it is five or so decades later.
> 
> [Laudanum](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laudanum) was used as a painkiller, a cough suppressant, and to help sleep, so very useful here. I couldn't find info on the right doses though, especially as each varied wildly in percentages of opiates and alcohol and other ingredients.
> 
> Repeating my earlier warning/etc: I am a cis person, I have never had to come out regarding my gender identity, and I don't know what it's like to be trans; I have no sensitivity reader and am doing my best to be respectful all round. Any and all constructive criticism is welcome.

Jacob and Ned burst through the double doors of St. Bart's hospital, striding towards the main desk in matched steps, faces grim and stony. The waiting families and scattered staff scrambled to get out of their way; Jacob barely noticed.

"Miss Clara O'Dea, fourteen, admitted earlier today," Ned barked at the startled receptionist. "Where is she, how is she?"

"Oh! Er–" He shuffled through some papers. "O'Dea... um... ah–! no, um..."

Jacob clenched his hands so tight his arms started shaking; he barely kept himself from reaching over the desk and throwing the man.

"Miss O'Dea, yes, ah, admitted this morning–" He blinked and looked up. "I'm sorry, who are...?"

" _Now_ ," Jacob snarled. The little man cowered.

"Sir, if you could sign in..."

"Boss!" a woman called, and Jacob turned: she was a Rook, lived in Whitechapel, he knew her – Gertie Barnes, that was it, and her husband Bob right behind her, coming down the stairs. "Boss, she's up here."

Jacob was already moving, shoving past the sole guard who made a weak attempt to say something about only two visitors allowed per patient. "Obviously there's two patients," Ned said pointedly as they passed.

"Or there will be," said Bob.

Jacob ignored them. "What happened?" he demanded as they climbed, and Gertie, to her credit, wasted no time.

"Two broken legs," she said. "We heard a ruckus in Babylon Alley, found the kids in a state, girl half in a haycart. Looks like she was jumping, missed, hit her legs on the side. We carried her out, drove her here, sent word to you. Doctors took her to set the bones an' stitch her up. Nurse says she'll be fine."

Relief hit Jacob like as a brick; he nearly tripped in his step, and behind them he heard Ned let out a huge breath. He straightened and clapped Gertie's shoulder. "Good work."

Gertie nodded and pointed up to the landing. "We've been waiting up there. A nurse comes by every so often to give word. Nightingale, I think."

"I know her."

Bob said, "You want us to wait, Boss? Guard downstairs?"

Jacob shook his head; they reached the top of the stairs. "I've got it. Go back to the alley, get that hay cart out of there. And let the kids know," he added as the Rooks turned to leave. "Tell them she'll be all right. Nothing else."

They nodded and headed down. Jacob looked around, fingers twitching, for any sign of where to go next. This wasn't a place meant for visitors: there were no chairs or spaces to wait, just a wide corridor for staff going one way or another. Ned had stopped a sour-looking doctor and was holding a stack of pound notes just out of the man's reach, asking questions in a clipped voice that was getting colder. Refusing to talk, ay? He'd regret that.

Teeth grit, Jacob began to stalk towards them when a voice called, "Mr Frye!"

He spun round. "Miss Nightingale. _Where_ is _Clara_?"

"Calm yourself, Mr Frye, I will not have you disturbing my patients." Her frown was knife-sharp, and Jacob clenched his jaw, forcing his voice down.

"Where is Clara?"

"And what's her condition?" Ned asked, joining them and tucking his money away. "Ned Wynert," he added, tipping his hat.

Miss Nightingale nodded to him politely. "Florence Nightingale. Miss O'Dea is in the operating room– and _no_ , Mr Frye, you _may not enter_ ," she declared, blocking him as he made for the corridor. "The doctors must focus on their work."

Ned slid neatly in between them, all charm, and said, "Of course not, Miss Nightingale, we would never. How is she? I understand both her legs...?" He reached back and blindly caught Jacob's wrist, squeezed it, but all Jacob's attention was on the nurse.

"Quite so. I examined her when she arrived: Both legs broken below the knee and significant damage to her flesh from the bone fragments. She lost a great deal of blood, but the couple who brought her in were quick enough about it that we were able to stabilise her."

"I understand she'll recover," Ned went on, and _how the bloody hell was he so calm?_ "Will it be a full recovery?"

"She will walk again, if that's what you mean," said Miss Nightingale. "If she takes proper care during her convalescence and, God willing, there are no serious infections, she will be on her feet in five to six months, though it will take longer to regain her full strength."

Jacob reeled. _Months_. Clara, stuck in bed for months. She was going to _hate_ that.

And it was his fault.

_Consider it a challenge._

Jacob only half-listened to the rest, details about recovery estimates and statistics that Ned cared about for some reason, about mobility and medicines and infection and the bloody cost of her care, which Ned emptied his wallet for on the spot, promising to return with the rest. Jacob pulled a messy wad of cash from his pocket and let Ned count it out. With a small smile Miss Nightingale said, "Thank you, gentlemen, but you're welcome to settle the account when she is discharged. In the meantime, if you'll come with me, you may wait in her room until the doctors are finished."

She led the way down another corridor, to a small tiled room with an empty bed and a few chairs lined up under the window. Jacob dropped heavily into one, muttering thanks and ignoring the string of questions Ned kept up until Miss Nightingale bade them farewell and closed the door.

Jacob raked his fingers through his hair, pulling off his hat and tossing it in the vague direction of a table; it overshot and fell to the floor, but he didn't bother to chase it. The chairs were small and uncomfortable, and exactly what he deserved. Ned sat down beside him. "Not too long, at least," he said.

"Hmm?"

"Clara. Miss Nightingale said that the last time she was by the doctors had finished setting her bones and were starting to stitch her up. Another half-hour, maybe." He frowned at Jacob, leaned forward in his chair to look at him. "What's wrong?"

"What _isn't_ wrong?" Jacob burst out. "Clara's _hurt_ , might be crippled, could have died, and you–" He bit it off, dragged his hand down his face. "You're all so fragile."

"No, you're just less fragile than most," Ned told him. He sounded puzzled. "Jacob, she'll be fine."

"She might not have been!"

"But she _will_ ," he replied firmly. "We don't know what happened yet. It was probably an accident; it's not as though it's going to happen again."

Jacob looked away.

Beside him, Ned was silent a moment. Then, "Jacob, what do you know?"

His voice was neutral, not angry or cold, but shame flooded Jacob anyway. "She wanted to learn how to jump," he said to his toes. "A few days ago. I brought her that hay cart. The kids loved playing in it, but she wanted to train."

"You were teaching her to land like you do?"

"Not from that high! I _told_ her, just one storey up, not higher, not until she could do it safely."

"And you really thought she would listen?"

Jacob closed his mouth. "...I... I didn't think about it." He blinked. "Damnit, this is all my fault. Evie was right, I never _think_ , I just destroy _everything_ –"

"Hey, hey! Stop it!" Ned grabbed his sleeve and yanked him down; Jacob hadn't realised he was halfway to his feet. "Don't be dramatic."

Jacob shook his head but let himself be pulled back into the chair. "Tell me you don't blame me, then. I scared you half to death today because I didn't think ahead. You were _hurt_ at Scotland Yard because I–"

"Because _I_ decided to join that fight," said Ned. "Because _I_ stupidly wanted to prove I wasn't a coward. It's not all about you. And yes, I do wish you'd think ahead more sometimes, but Jacob, she's an over-ambitious orphan who thinks she knows everything and is desperate to impress you. I'm surprised it took this long for something to go wrong."

That... made some sense, and it wrenched Jacob's thoughts out of their downward spiral. He rubbed his mouth as he turned the words over in his head. He wouldn't have described Clara like that, but he couldn't quite argue with any of it either. Ambitious, yes, definitely. And true, she did act like she knew everything, but acting wasn't the same as believing it... then again, it wasn't like he could see the difference. But desperate to impress? He scoffed. "I doubt she cares what I think."

Ned chuckled. "You hadn't noticed? She treats you like a father."

Jacob recoiled in horror, and Ned laughed out loud.

"Maybe a favourite uncle, then," he offered. "You really hadn't noticed?"

Jacob scratched the back of his head. "Maybe? I hadn't... thought about it." And with that, his spirits plummeted again. He _should_ have thought about it, she was only a _child_ –

Ned nudged him. "It could have been worse," he said. "Next time she'll be more careful."

"If there is a next time. She could heal wrong and limp for the rest of her life."

"I thought you were an optimist."

Jacob shrugged. "I... I don't know what to do," he confessed, quietly, nearly a whisper. "Ned, I can't fix this."

He closed his eyes. Around him he could faintly hear the muffled voices of doctors in the hall and the quiet rasp of fabric rubbing against fabric as Ned moved a little in his seat. Then thin fingers laced through his and Ned squeezed his hand. "I think you can," he said gently. "She's going to need a place to stay, and people – adults – to help her out. Not to mention something to keep her busy till Christmas. That library car of yours should do the trick."

Jacob looked at him, and felt, a little, like he was waking up. "Take her to stay on the train?"

Ned shrugged. "I don't see she has many other options, and between you and Agnes keeping an eye on her she might actually stay still long enough to heal."

He was right, but she'd need more than that: she'd need a compartment of her own, a proper bed, and crutches or something else to get around with. Or would she have to be carried, at least at first? Jacob could do it easily, but he couldn't spend every minute of every day on the train. Agnes was able, she was strong enough, but she had rounds to make too. Nigel maybe? Clara wasn't fond of Nigel ( _"Mr Bumble? He's a fool"_ ), but there were always other Rooks about, maybe he could make a bonus job of it, find people she liked, give them shifts...

Ned was smiling at him, fond and soft, like before, still holding his hand lightly. Jacob didn't think. "Ned, about earlier–"

He pulled away, to his feet, out of reach. "No, I can't, not– not now."

Jacob barely kept himself from chasing; he curled his fingers tight on his thighs. "So _when_?"

Ned was tense, spooked, eyes darting to the door and the murmur of people behind it. Jacob reached to take his hand again, partly to anchor him, partly a promise. "I _won't tell anyone_. I swear."

Ned let him, squeezed back a little. "I know. I trust... that."

So what didn't he trust? This was _maddening_. "Ned–"

"I need time! There's... so much. It's complicated."

"How? You're a" – he flapped a hand vaguely at Ned's body (it was so _hard_ to think of him as a 'she') – "but you're still _you_ , Ned, and I–"

Ned clamped a hand hard over his mouth, and Jacob, halfway through a word, found himself kissing Ned's palm. They both froze, then Ned tore it away. "I need to think. I need a few days. All right? Come by in... in a few days. Three days. I'll try to explain."

Jacob nodded slowly, and tried to read Ned's face. What was he so afraid of?

He couldn't figure it out.

After a minute, Ned sat down again, but he held himself stiff, an inch of cold air between them, and they sat in painful silence.

Some ten minutes later Miss Nightingale and two doctors brought Clara in, half-conscious and smelling of chloroform, pale against her white shift. Jacob and Ned were on their feet the moment the door opened, but were shooed out of the way while she was lifted onto the bed and checked and tested and tucked in. They lifted her carefully but she cried out in pain, and no wonder: her legs were a mess of red slashes and black bruises, long stitched lines criss-crossing each other where the bone shards had torn through. They were sewn up neatly now, leaking small beads of blood, and her legs were straightened and held stiff by by splints, but they seemed fragile, like gravel, as she was tucked under the blankets.

"Why isn't she in casts?" Jacob demanded.

Without a glance his way Miss Nightingale said, "The wounds need to close and we must be wary of infection in the meantime. She will need to stay here and be monitored for at least a week or so. Then, once the casts have set, you may take her home." She waved the doctors out. "Mr Frye, I assure you: We know what we are doing."

Jacob sighed, forcing his jaw to unclench. "My apologies, Miss Nightingale."

"It's quite all right." She laid a hand on Clara's brow and checked her pulse; her head was lolling on the pillow, stuck between sleep and waking. "I will return frequently to check on her. Should she require it, she may have laudanum for the pain" – she placed a bottle and a spoon on the nearby table – "and should anything happen, you may ring that bell or call for assistance."

"Thank you, Ma'am. We will," said Ned.

Jacob pulled his chair up to Clara's side as Miss Nightingale left, and dragged another behind him for Ned, who took it without hesitation. She wasn't properly awake, but her eyes were half open and darting around feverishly. They landed on him and she squinted, trying to focus, and Jacob brushed away a sweaty tuft of hair that had caught in her mouth. "Clara?"

She made a little sound, a pained moan, and Jacob yanked his hand back, but then her head rolled towards the spot he'd abandoned as if seeking it. Jacob pulled off his glove and took her hand instead. She was so _pale_.

Ned's chair put him by her waist, and he was carefully keeping clear of her legs as he leaned his elbows on the bed. "I want to help," he said softly. "No matter what's happening with... us. I want to help her."

"Of course." Jacob couldn't look away from Clara's face; it was like she was seeing through him, to the ceiling, to things that weren't there. He wished the gas would wear off so she could talk, then kicked himself for it; it was his fault she was here in the first place, how dare he wish anything for himself? At least this way she wasn't feeling so much pain. He pushed the thought away and tried to focus on Ned. "You could... teach her to pick locks?"

A very small chuckle escaped him. "You know, I think she'd like that. Not that you couldn't teach her yourself."

"You're better."

Ned shrugged. "I have some books; I'll bring them round once she's settled. If she's interested I'll bring my practice locks."

Jacob nodded. He folded Clara's hand gently on her stomach, then reached over and tugged the blanket higher. She was still now, quieter, drifting towards sleep. That would be good, she'd heal better that way. But what if she had nightmares, and thrashed in her bed? Could she upset her splints? The doctors must have thought about that. But maybe they hadn't secured the splints properly, maybe he should check...

"I don't want things to change," Ned said suddenly. Jacob blinked and glanced at him. He was biting his lip, sitting up straight and stiff again. "Because of... well, me. This. I liked things the way they were. With us."

Maybe if his thoughts weren't a tangled mess of blame and worry, Jacob would have been able to make sense of that, but as it was his head just felt fuzzy, and one small noise from Clara yanked his attention back to her. So distracted, all he said was, "Why would they change?"

Through the corner of his eye, he was dimly aware of Ned's shoulders softening, of the tiny smile in the corner of his lip, but then Clara gasped and everything else was forgotten. "Clara? You awake?"

She blinked and squinted in the light, and when her eyes landed on him she looked confused for a moment – then her face crumpled. "Oh! Oh Mr Frye, I'm so sorry! I've ruined _everything_!"

She burst into tears. Jacob found himself reaching for her before he'd even thought about it, but when he touched her shoulder she jerked away, trying to hide her face, and the movement jostled her legs: Her sobs turned to a scream.

"Don't move, don't move!" Jacob cried, and as gently as he could he pushed her down onto her back again, trying to hold her still. The chair beside him scraped sharply as Ned bolted up and marched toward the laudanum Miss Nightingale had left them.

"Help her sit," he said, and Clara looked round, blinking.

"Mr Wynert?" she said faintly. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to work out a good dose," he said, scowling and squinting at the bottle in the poor light. "Jacob, help her sit up."

Jacob slid an arm under Clara's shoulders, careful not to jostle her again, and lifted till she was half-sitting and cradled against his shoulder, still shuddering from tears and pain. Ned carefully poured out a spoonful and brought it over, palm hovering under it for drips. "Take this. Slowly."

He brought it as close to her as was safe, and Jacob kept Clara steady as she leaned forward to close her mouth around it. It must have been strong, she made quite a face at the taste, but kept it in as Ned slid the spoon out, and winced as she swallowed.

"You can have another, I think, but it might send you to sleep." Ned looked at her. "You're going to be sleeping a lot, I'm afraid."

"The nurse says it'll be a while before they can put casts on you," Jacob told her, and at that Clara's face crumpled again; she was shaking her head before he finished speaking. "What is it?"

"Everything!" she wailed, and like a flood the words fell out of her: "Everything's ruined, I'll be a cripple, I can't do _anything_ anymore, ever again! I've broken our bargain forever and the children will be lost without me and–"

"Clara, Clara, slow down! What's all this?" Jacob glanced at Ned, but he looked just as puzzled. Jacob shifted so he could sit beside Clara, still supporting her back with one arm. "The bonesetters straightened you out and stitched you up. It'll take... a while," he said, "but you'll walk again."

She shook her head miserably, clutching her hair. "It doesn't matter, the children will never wait that long, they'll be following Tim and John again within a week and I'll never win them back again, ever, and I'll never be able to gather any useful intelligence, I'm _useless_ and _stupid_ and–"

"Clara, stop!" said Ned. He took her hand and sat carefully on the other side of her bed. "Stop that. You're the farthest thing from stupid. It'll be all right, I promise."

But she was sobbing now, so hard she could barely speak, and Jacob wrapped his other arm around her, tucking her into his chest. Something was reminding him of that day in the carriage when she'd first confessed to losing most of her followers, how she'd balked at accepting new clothes, and suddenly he understood.

"Clara," he said softly. "Clara, look at me."

She shook her head hard, covering her face with her hands, and Jacob didn't push it. He combed out the limp remains of a braid with his fingers and spoke to the top of her head instead. "You don't have to be useful to get help."

She curled tighter, shuddery breaths wracking her body as she tried to speak; her voice was thick, choked with snot. "I ca– can't–" she forced down a hard breath to "–can't afford it."

Ned offered his handkerchief, and had to press it into her hand before she noticed it. "Lucky for you, we can," he said. "And we have. It's already paid for."

"You _can't_!" she wailed, "I'll never be able to repay you!"

Jacob looked over her head to Ned, and an idea struck. With a deliberate, exaggerated eye-roll, he said, "I told you, Ned, she's as bad as you were."

Ned blinked but caught on quickly. He nodded. "That you did, but you seem to have skipped the part where I changed my mind." He bent forward and tugged on one of Clara's arms, and waited till she she lowered it enough to look at him. "Did he ever tell you?"

Dangling it as a mystery seemed to work; through her shaky tears she was looking between them, insatiable mind needing answers. "As bad as you? About w-what?"

"Gifts," said Ned, looking her straight in the eye. "My policy was always one favour for another, equal, had to balance out. I didn't want to owe anyone anything. And I still don't," he added wryly, "not to most people, but there are exceptions."

"You're family, Clara. We're taking care of you whether you want it or not."

Tears of an entirely different sort welled up in her eyes. "But I can't _help_ you anymore."

"Then it's your turn to be helped," said Ned. "Why should all the other kids get it and not you?"

"And it's not forever," said Jacob. "You'll walk again. And there will _always_ be a job with the Rooks for you."

This was too much for Clara: she buried her face in Jacob's shoulder, weeping, and through the muffling of his shirt she said "thank you" and "thank you" again, and half a dozen times more.

Ned said, "No need for that. We want to."

Jacob hugged her, and let her cry.

Eventually Clara wore herself out, or perhaps the laudanum overcame her, but when Miss Nightingale returned a little while later she was fast asleep in Jacob's arms. Ned excused himself while they were tucking her in, started to slip out quietly, but when Jacob caught his eye at the door, he froze. "Three days," he said haltingly. "All right?"

Jacob nodded, an unreadable sadness in his face. "Take care, Ned."

Ned didn't quite _flee_ the hospital, but he didn't waste time either. He caught the first cab he saw outside, and when he found himself at Rose's doorstep some time later he couldn't remember one moment of the ride. He blinked and looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see the steps of St. Bart's behind him, then shook his head, suddenly bone-weary as he reached up with a heavy arm to knock.

Soft firelight glowed behind Rose as she answered the door. "Ned? What's wrong?"

How even to begin? He opened his mouth, closed it, and sighed. "It's been a very, _very_ long day."

Forty minutes later he had outlined most of it. Rose, who had broken her leg once, had gone and packed a small array of entertainments that might interest Clara (books, charcoal and drawing-paper, an embroidery hoop – things she had likely never tried and would at least distract her for a while), and Ned was belly-down on her couch, face buried in a pillow as he tried to sum up the _other_ major event of the day.

"I don't know what to _do_ ," he mumbled. "It was awful. You should have seen his face – it was like I kicked a dog." He let out a heavy breath and looked up, propping his chin on the pillow. "I should have seen this coming."

"Mm. You're clairvoyant, after all. This is clearly all your fault." Rose was settled in the armchair beside him now, stockinged feet stretched out towards the fire. She reached over and nudged him. "Well, if you don't know what to do next, what _do_ you know?"

That wasn't an angle he'd considered, and he had to think a moment. It wasn't easy; he was only just now feeling truly calm again, and so much had happened today that it was all a big tangle in his head, soaked equally with fright and joy. He bit his lip and shuffled round till he was lying on his back, still holding the pillow against his chest, and looked up at the ceiling. It didn't offer any answers.

"I trust him not to tell anyone," he said at last. "Even if everything else goes wrong, he won't expose me out of spite."

Rose's lips pinched into a thin line. "I hope you're right," she said carefully, and Ned could hear what she wasn't saying; echoes of every time she'd voiced her doubts about Jacob's recklessness before. "If he slips up even once, we're done."

"He can keep secrets," said Ned. "He's told me some things I'd never have guessed; never even dropped a hint."

"Except by telling you," Rose pointed out dryly, but she didn't press. "But let's assume you're right. What else are you sure of?"

Ned felt his face heat up. "I... want to kiss him again. A lot." He groaned and covered his face with the pillow. Rose laughed.

"Oh dear. Please don't tell me _that's_ what I'll have to listen to you ramble on about from now on; it's bad enough you go on and on and _on_ about his bloody _arms_ every time you've had a night at the clubs."

Ned squirmed in embarrassment, but he couldn't quite keep his mind from leaping to the image of Jacob, sweaty and muscled and merrily bashing heads in the ring. He smiled happily at the image. "They are magnificent."

Rose groaned. Ned laughed and tossed the pillow her way. It missed, and landed with a muffled thump somewhere beyond; neither of them bothered to fetch it. Shaking her head, Rose stretched, cat-like, and settled more comfortably into her chair. "I'll never understand the appeal."

Ned shrugged; he'd tried, but had never managed to explain what it was about a handsome man that so powerfully caught his eye – but then, Rose had never been able to make him see what it was about the female form that so attracted her either. It was a shame, it would have been helpful for better passing in society, but they'd mutually given up a while ago.

Rose twisted in her chair and leaned on the armrest to face him. "Seriously, Ned, is he worth the risk?"

 _Yes_ flew to the tip of his tongue, but Ned held it; she would ask why, and he knew why, but he didn't have words for it, only feelings, and he'd never been good at voicing feelings. Instead he shrugged. "It's out of our hands now anyway; he knows. I can't make him forget."

She frowned, one raised eyebrow calling him out on his dodge, but he was right, and Rose wasn't one to argue hypotheticals. "Granted, that ship has sailed, but we can still control the wheel."

Ned shook his head. "I can't let him think I'm a woman playing dress-up. I can't."

"Oh, no no, I know!" she said quickly, flustered. "I didn't mean that, I would never–"

"I know, I know," he assured her, and he pulled himself up to sit and face her. "Sorry. _I_ was thinking about it, but I can't, not even to make this all work out." He sighed. "But if you're thinking I could convince him I'm not interested... he already knows otherwise."

She nodded. "That is what I was going to suggest." She sighed. "Well, I suppose it's a good thing. You'd never be happy always wondering if it might have worked. But I worry for you, Ned. How likely is it that he will understand what no one else ever has?" Ned flinched, and Rose, looking pained, reached for his hand. "I'm sorry," she said earnestly, "I really am, but we have to plan for the worst. What if he reacts like Mr Worth, or your parents?"

He took her hand and the comfort offered, and let himself think back to that awful night when Adam Worth had taken him to a bar in the wilder part of New York, bought him enough drinks to muddle his thinking, then passed him a slip of paper with _Henrietta Wynn_ scrawled on it. Ned had panicked, tried to run, but Adam had calmly kept tight hold of his wrist and said it would be their secret. He'd kept his word, as far as Ned knew, but the terror of that moment, trapped with a bigger man's hand clamped round his wrist, had never really gone away.

And his parents... he'd been nine the day he realised Mother's scolding for not acting ladylike was more serious than the threat of sending him to his room without his books. Father had taken him for a long walk through the park – which should have been his first clue; Father never left his study if he could help it – and talked obliquely for a while about how it truly wasn't fair that ladies' lives were so restricted, but it was good that nine was old enough to grow out of silly games: after all, girls who told everyone they were boys went to asylums, and obviously there was no need for that. Ned had taken the hint with seething fury and no small amount of horror, and begun planning to run away that evening. To this day he wasn't sure if Mother had known about that conversation, but from that day until the day he'd left, Ned had been allowed to escape feminine frippery now and then by hiding in the study, and Father had always turned a blind eye to his child's oddities... but he'd never said he believed him.

What would Jacob do with the idea of Ned _being_ a man, rather than 'just pretending'? How to explain it? How to even begin?

Ned had tried once, with Adam, a few nerve-wracking days after that night at the bar. He'd thanked him for his discretion, for his promise, and said, "But so we're clear, I _am_ a man." Adam had said "Of course!" and launched into a long, self-satisfied explanation of how he'd worked out Ned's secret (along with all the clues Ned had left and advice on how to mask them); then he'd chuckled, clapped Ned on the shoulder, squeezed hard enough to hurt, harder by far than was needed, and told him not to worry, he was already just as good as the boys.

Ned had never had the nerve to bring it up again.

But Jacob made him feel safe – even today, when his familiar old panic had reared up and strangled him, he wasn't afraid _of_ Jacob. Of what he'd think, yes. Of being called mad, wrong, out of his mind, yes. Of... of losing him. Losing his friendship, and the potential for more. But not _of_ him.

"Ned, I'm sorry, but I had to ask. Please say something."

Rose was gently rubbing her thumb over his fingers, soothing and an apology in one, and Ned blinked up at her. She looked pained, and he shook himself out of his musings. "I know; I know you did. I didn't want to think about it. But I really don't think he'll be like them. I don't know what he'll say, or think, but he won't hurt me. And he hates asylums."

Rose nodded, accepting if not exactly comforted. "Then I suppose we'll have to wait and see. Do you want me to be there when you talk to him?"

He considered it, but shook his head. "You two are like oil and water. It'll be easier if it's just us. I think." He groaned and dropped his head onto his arms. "I said to come by the office. That was stupid, we can't talk in the office, anyone could drop by, and if we're interrupted–"

"We can fix that, don't worry about it," promised Rose. "What we need to do is work out how to explain your situation to him so he understands it properly."

"And we've got three days to do it." Ned sighed. "God, I hope it's enough."

For Jacob, three days of waiting passed like molasses, and nearly drove him out of his mind. He threw himself into work, tracking down extra bounties for Freddie, training his Rooks, visiting Clara (she was always asleep), staying up late with Agnes planning how to rearrange the train for her, and checking in on things at Wrye & Co.'s factories, but when he would have normally gone to meet with Ned on business, he sent Maggie instead.

Three days, four nights, and the nights were worse. He dreamed of Ned: Ned with a cock, Ned with tits, Ned with both, and at one point possibly neither, it was all a hazy mess of kisses and touch and a vague, ominous fear of loss, and he woke up aching and sticky, and just as confused.

It figured, then, that the day he could finally see Ned again was the day Clara was awake when he came by, and was finally willing and able to talk without falling apart again. Jacob had only meant to stop in briefly on his way to Southwark, but when Miss Nightingale said Clara had been asking after him, he'd barely hesitated before changing plans. Ned would understand. He hoped.

"I just don't understand," Clara declared after Miss Nightingale left them, leaning back to sit against the pillows Jacob had just finished piling up for her. "Why are you here?"

"I'm here," he said, leaning back in a chair and propping his feet up on the bed, "because you are."

She frowned. "That's not an answer."

"It's all I've got. You can't come to me, after all." A moment after he said it he froze, glanced at her legs, afraid it would set her off again, but she just looked frustrated.

"I have no news for you; all my intelligence is nearly a week out of date."

Jacob rolled his eyes. "Maybe I just like talking to you."

"We've only ever talked business."

"That's not true," said Jacob. "We've talked a lot about how to fight, and throwing knives..." he searched for a moment, "why the people of London shouldn't freeze to death..."

"Only because I bargained for it."

Jacob shrugged. "I'd have taught you anyway."

Her mouth closed with a snap. "But... why?"

"Why not? Business is boring. Oh – books. We talked about _A Christmas Carol_ , remember?"

"One book."

Jacob rolled his eyes and took his feet down, and leaned on his elbows to face her. "I want to see you're all right, Clara. Why is that so hard to believe?"

He expected an argument, an imperious speech about something, but she was quiet. Her fingers tightened and flexed on the hem of her blanket. "That first night – why did you call me family?"

Jacob hesitated. Honestly, he had no idea; the word had come out of his mouth on its own and felt so natural he hadn't thought twice about it. But Clara wouldn't settle for that, wouldn't even fathom something so unscientific; she was like Evie that way.

"You know, I never had a little sister," he mused aloud. "Evie's the oldest, you know? By four minutes. Never lets me forget it."

"I'm not your sister," Clara said. She sounded confused. "I was an only child. Why would you say that?"

"Does it matter? I think you'd be a fantastic little sister; you're always arguing with me anyway," Jacob replied with a cheery grin, but it was stretched. He was still fumbling around in his head for a real answer, and nothing was coming to mind, so he let his over-bright demeanour fade and shrugged. "I don't know, Clara, why does anyone pick their friends? But if you think I'd just walk away the moment you need help instead of giving it, you're mad."

She was getting teary again, but she gathered herself, shook her head, and said, "Thank you for you help, Mr Frye. I..." her voice got small, "I'm very grateful."

"Grateful enough not to argue about staying on the train till you're better?" he asked warily.

A little light sparked in her eyes at his words, though she held herself back. "Your train?" she said cautiously. "As in... stay there."

"Yeah. As long as you need to heal."

"That would... be all right?"

"I wouldn't say it if it wasn't. And please don't tell me you can't repay me, I don't _want_ you to."

Clara nodded quickly, the look she had when scrambling to seal a bargain before the chance passed. "I understand, I promise, I won't..." She bit her lip. "Are you sure?"

Jacob rolled his eyes so hard they hurt. "I'll give you a job. How's that? A job you have to do to earn your keep." Watching the safe, maybe: Plant her on the couch in the library car right by the safe, have her make sure the money was deposited, record it all maybe, whatever wouldn't require her to move.

"Deal! Whatever it is, I'll do it, and I'll do it well. I promise!"

Jacob had to chuckle. "Clara, I don't think you're able _not_ to."

By the time Jacob made it to Ned's office, nerves thin and stomach knotted, it was one o'clock in the afternoon.

Ned wasn't there.

"He's out on business," said Rose, hands folded tightly on her desk, stiff and tense. "It will take all day. He left you this."

She pulled an envelope from the top drawer of her desk and offered it to him. Jacob took it warily, puzzled, and read it over. "A dinner invitation?" He looked at Rose. "Why?"

"We thought it best, given that it's likely to be a long conversation. Clients sometimes drop by here unexpectedly, and we don't want to risk them overhearing."

"Oh." He paused. "So... you know about..."

"Yes."

He probably should have guessed that. "Do you know why he's so frightened?"

A flicker of expression crossed her face before it went smooth and blank again. "You'll have to ask him."

Jacob nodded and turned the paper over in his hands, scanning the words again. It didn't say much, just the time and address in the Strand, a greeting and a signature, nothing he could read into. It sounded more formal than usual, but then, Ned had never sent a written note before. Feeling unsettled, Jacob tucked the letter into a pocket and turned to go. "I'll be there."

He was nearly out the door before Rose called, "Mr Frye, wait."

He turned back. She was standing now, braced with palms flat on her desk, chin drawn high. "I want to be clear that I am speaking for myself, not Mr Wynert, and that he does not know I am saying this."

Jacob tensed. "I understand, Miss Lennox."

Rose nodded once, tightly. "If you hurt him, or betray him even once, slip up around anyone, I don't care how talented you are: I will find you." From her purse she pulled a small, gold-handled revolver and set it loudly on the desk. "Am I quite understood?"

From anyone else, it would have been hilarious. It still was, given how impossibly tiny her odds would be, but she knew it, and stood tall anyway, looking him in the eye and unflinching in her defence of Ned. He admired that.

So he doffed his hat and made a very proper bow, one without a hint of mockery. "Madam," he said, "Ned is lucky to call you a friend."

She looked surprised, but recovered and nodded neatly. "I hope to one day say the same of you, Mr Frye. Do try to earn the trust he's placed in you."

"I will."

At ten minutes past six, Ned was pacing his rooms, wondering what the hell Jacob was up to. Rose had sent word that he'd taken the invitation and promised to be there, and he'd definitely written _six_ o'clock, and the right address, and–

_Breathe, Ned._

He forced himself away from the window and back to the dining table, fiddling with the place settings and checking the lids on the serving dishes. Most days, Ned just made himself something simple to eat – perk or downside of living alone – but his neighbour Janice was a widowed mother always in need of extra money, and she'd been delighted when he asked to hire her to make a proper meal, but she'd gone to such lengths that Ned was almost regretting asking: It was so elaborate. What was Jacob going to think?

Too late now.

Ned sat and let his head sink onto the table. He had _no idea_ what he was doing. He and Rose had talked it through over and over, planning the conversation, practicing counter-arguments for everything they could think of, strategizing about every detail, but none of it helped. Was this the best way? No, the best way would have been to spend months drip-feeding the idea until he had enough that evidence that Jacob would accept it (accept _him_ ), but that choice had been taken away. Was this the best place? Maybe, the office was too public and there was nowhere else that Ned could be sure that no one – acrobatic gang leaders with ridiculously good ears aside – could overhear, but the intimate setting was... well, intimate, and they weren't ready to pick up where they left off at St Paul's. There was too much unsaid and tangled and confused, and there was every chance Jacob wouldn't still be interested in him anymore after this. Maybe that's what had happened, maybe he'd changed his mind, decided not to bother–

_Breathe, Ned._

That wasn't the goal here, anyway. All Ned wanted, all he needed to sleep through the night again, was to know that Jacob would still be his friend. So tonight was about answering Jacob's questions, standing his ground, and with luck things might be back to normal in a month or so. Anything else would have to wait.

Finally there were footsteps in the stairwell and a loud knock on the door. Ned sprang up, paused long enough to straighten his waistcoat, and opened the door. Jacob stood there awkwardly, hat in his hands and overcoat buttoned up to his neck. "Ah.... hello, Ned."

"Jacob." He stood frozen a moment, then: "Oh, sorry, come in." He stepped back hastily and swung the door open. Jacob stepped in.

"Am I late?" he asked carefully. "I was going to be early, but I– well, I was visiting Clara." He reached up to hang his hat on the coatrack, right beside Ned's.

Small talk. Good, good start; Ned breathed easier. "Clara, yes. How is she? Here, I'll take your coat."

Jacob began to unbutton it with one hand, stuffing his gauntlet into a pocket with the other. "She's hurting less," he said. "Doesn't need quite so much laudanum as long as she doesn't move too much. No sign of infection so far. She's been reading the books you and Rose sent; tried to draw too, but she says they're awful. Wouldn't let me see. Says thanks again for sending it all."

As he talked Ned nodded along, glad to have something to focus on, but then Jacob took off his coat and he stopped hearing any of it. Underneath, instead of his usual crooked waistcoat and shirtsleeves, Jacob was wearing a smooth black suit complete with a neatly tied cravat. His dusty boots had been swapped for shiny shoes, his shirt was even tucked in for the first time Ned could recall. He looked... Ned swallowed. He looked sleek and handsome, and without the usual bulk of his belts and pouches and weapons, he looked almost naked.

Jacob noticed his gaze and shifted uncomfortably. "Is it too formal? I don't get many dinner invitations."

As lightly as he could manage, Ned said, "You could wear that to Buckingham Palace."

"I did."

Was he joking? Ned couldn't think clearly enough to work it out. He rubbed his arm and looked around, away, and his eyes fell on the table. Dinner! Right. "Um, this way."

He gestured towards the table, then felt ridiculous; it wasn't like Jacob couldn't see it, there were only two small rooms in this place and the table was barely five steps away. But Jacob looked delighted. "Ned! What's all this? A feast?" He hopped over, lifted a lid and breathed in the steam from the boiled potatoes. "Fit for the queen too, looks like. Ned, are you trying to seduce me?"

He said it lightly, a tease, trying to be normal, but even though the honest answer wasn't _yes_ , it wasn't _no_ either. Ned hesitated too long, and Jacob's eyes widened. "Oh."

"That's not– I want to _talk_ to you," said Ned, flustered. "There's a lot to say, and it's hard, for me, and probably for you too, and I thought– ...I thought it would be easier."

With more graciousness than Ned had ever seen him bother with before, Jacob acknowledged that by pulling out his chair and waiting, standing politely, until Ned did the same. They took their seats at the same time, Ned at the head of the table, Jacob at his elbow. "So you do know what manners are," said Ned, then cursed himself for rudeness.

But Jacob wasn't offended. He pretended to be, theatrically clapping a hand to his heart (so he _was_ nervous too; good to know), and declared, "I can be a perfect gentleman! If I want to. Watch." He sat with folded hands and a look of angelic patience as Ned uncovered the other platter – roast chicken – and waited for his host to cut off some pieces before neatly lifting one onto his plate. Ned added one to his own and began doling out the potatoes.

The routine of serving a guest was comforting, and Ned let himself be busy with it for a minute, saying nothing, trying to decide which script to start with – practicing so many had been a mistake, he should have ranked them or something. The room waited in the quiet _clink_ of cutlery and glass as Ned poured their wine.

Jacob twitched in the silence, then broke it: "It's not hard to think of you as a man," he offered. "I forgot a few times. You don't have to worry that I'll let it slip."

"Oh." Ned blinked, startled. "That's great. Thank you." He managed a brief smile, but it was shaky. His lungs ached; he realised he was holding his breath. With effort, he let it out and cleared his throat. "And thank you for... coming. Here. To talk. It's..." He groaned and shut his eyes. How much _more_ of a mess could he make? "I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Ned," Jacob said quietly. He reached over, then paused, hand hovering halfway to Ned's before he retreated and picked up his fork.

Had either of them had a bite yet? This was a miserable attempt at a dinner. Ned sighed and speared a large slice of chicken and crammed it in his mouth, and yes, it was absolutely a coward's way to delay this conversation just a little bit longer.

A smile pulled up a corner of Jacob's lips. He opened his mouth, then seemed to think the better of it; a thoughtful frown creased his forehead. With honest curiosity, he asked, "Would it be funny to tease you for not being ladylike?"

Ned choked. He forced down his mouthful of chicken and managed to say, "Um. No."

Jacob shrugged and cut a potato. "Thought not. Sorry."

There would probably never be a better opening, and Ned couldn't stand the tension any longer. He took a deep breath and braced himself. "That's what I wanted to talk about. It wouldn't be funny because I'm not a woman. I'm a man. I know what I look like, I know what body I've got, but I'm not mad. I'm a man."

Jacob paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "...Yes?" he said after a moment. "I know. You said so already – at St Paul's."

Ned fumbled, entirely unprepared for that. "You... but– Wait, you believe me?"

He shrugged again. "Can't say I understand _how_ , but you'd know best, right?"

And Ned... for a moment, all his thoughts were blank. The words whirled through his head, over and over as his mind tried to parse them. "You... believe me," he repeated.

Jacob put down his knife and fork and looked at him worriedly. "Are you all right?"

Ned shook his head, then caught himself. "I mean, yes, fine. Why...?" He stopped, looked down at the fork gripped tight in his hand, hard enough to leave marks, and he couldn't feel a thing. "I don't know what to say," he said at last. "I didn't expect... Huh."

"You thought I wouldn't believe you?" Jacob frowned, puzzled. "Why? You're not mad, and you know more than me about this, so why wouldn't I?"

Logic. Who knew. Ned shrugged, still a bit dazed. "No one else ever has."

"Idiots."

A little chuckle burst from Ned's lips. He found he was smiling, and let it take over his face. "Yeah. They are." He sat back in his chair and let out a breath. The knots in his shoulders loosed a little.

"Wait – is that _it_?" Jacob asked, blinking at him. "Is that all this was about? Why you've been shying like a spooked horse for days?"

Ned bristled, rising in his seat. "This is important to me."

"I can see that." Jacob groaned and leaned his elbows on the table, rubbing his head. "Bloody hell, Ned, I thought... I don't know, I thought it was worse than that."

"Like what?"

He shrugged, picking up his wine glass and swirling it. "Dunno, felt like something bigger – life or death sort of thing. Maybe you were married already? I can see you being just honourable enough to be loyal to a wife back in New York. Or a husband," he added, as an afterthought, and took a gulp.

Well, while they were being honest... "I did propose to Rose once."

Jacob choked. Ned grinned and watched him sputter for a moment. "Bloody hell, Ned!" He sat up straight and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Then he paused. "You mean... you two...?"

Ned shook his head. "It was just an idea, to help each other, so she wouldn't be constantly hounded to marry, and if I had a wife, people would be less likely to suspect that I... well." He shrugged and fiddled with his fork. "But so far, thankfully, the only one who's noticed is you." In England, anyway.

"People are thick," Jacob said absently. He shook his head to clear it. "You would have married her just so people _might_ be less likely to look at you twice?"

Ned shrugged again. "It's not as though I could marry for love anyway; I'd have to either marry as a woman, or to a woman, and I don't want either."

Jacob opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it. He stabbed a potato and crammed it in his mouth instead, and Ned looked to his own plate. The smells wafting over the table were warm and soothing, and Ned found he had an appetite for the first time all evening. The potatoes were soft and buttery, and he dug in, maybe a little too quickly, making up for lost time.

They ate in silence for less than a minute before Jacob cleared his throat and asked, "So... how does it work, then? If your bits don't decide if you're man or woman. What does?"

"I have no idea," Ned said easily – this, he'd practiced for. He had a script. "All I know is that everything 'manly' is more _me_ than everything 'womanly'; even if women had every freedom men do, treated exactly the same, I wouldn't be happy living as a woman. I was born in the wrong body. I can't tell you why."

"Hmm," Jacob mumbled through his chewing. He swallowed but waited, thinking, a moment longer. "Is it like how I 'know' I'm British, and not American?"

Ned tilted his head side to side and took a sip of wine. "Maybe? Or more like, um... You're a fighter, not a scholar or a... a tailor. People could force you to sit still and sew all day but it would feel wrong, and you'd hate it. Maybe, maybe that's a bad example."

"No, I get it. The feeling, anyway. And you felt like that your whole life?" He sounded mildly horrified.

"Until I left my parents' home, started a new life, new name – it was the first time I felt free."

Jacob nodded and reached out to cut some more chicken, asking with a tilt of his head if Ned wanted any. He shook his head. "What was your other name?"

Ned hesitated. "Don't laugh," he warned. "And no nicknames, or jokes, or anything like that."

In half a second he realised that was the worst thing he could possibly have said; Jacob's eyes lit up and a grin flashed over his face. He crossed his heart with one finger. "Promise."

Ned narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Henrietta. 'Netta', most of the time. Henrietta Mary Wynn and don't you _dare_ laugh."

"I'm not," said Jacob, and he actually wasn't, though he still looked far too cheerful. "It's strange, is all, I can't imagine that name sticking to you; it's just _wrong_."

"Thank you." Ned's cheeks felt warm – probably the wine. "It is wrong. I think of Netta as another person; she never really existed, but I had to pretend to be her for a long time."

"'Netta', 'Ned'," Jacob said, seeing the connection. "What would my name be if I was a girl?"

That was an interesting question, and Ned settled more comfortably in his chair. "'Jacoba'?" he suggested. "'Jacobina'? Wait, I think– isn't 'Jacqueline' related somehow?"

"I think so? 'Jaques' in French."

Ned grinned. "All right. _Jake_."

His face scrunched up. "Ugh, no. That's not me."

Ned grinned wider. "Jacqueline?"

Jacob shot him a scowl, but it was theatrical, playful, and Ned chuckled. He raised his glass for a toast. "To our real names, then – Jacob."

"Ned."

 _Clink_.

They drained the glasses and Jacob reached for the bottle to refill them. "So is that everything? You done panicking and running away?"

And, to Ned's surprise, he was. He was warm and comfy, here with his friend, his worst fears put to rest. There was more to say, there always would be, but he wasn't afraid anymore: Jacob believed him, was listening to him, and was still _here_. It was everything he'd hoped for. So he smiled and nodded. "I'm good."

"Can we get back to snogging now?"

Laughter burst up through Ned's chest and split his face into a smile. His shoulders shook and he pressed his face into one hand, and shrugged blindly as he chuckled. Beside him, Jacob shrugged a shoulder wryly in acknowledgement. "I... don't know," Ned answered, still smiling. "I didn't think this far ahead."

"Eh, I can wait," said Jacob, spearing another slice of chicken. "Not _patiently_ ," he admitted, "but as long as you need."

A beautiful sort of peace had settled over Ned; his cheeks ached from smiling, his sides pinched from laughing, and he was happy. He didn't have to be on guard anymore, didn't have to constantly watch for hints of suspicion of be wary of slipping up. He'd been holding himself back so much, been so cautious, trying not to hope for things that would just break his heart...

...and now there was nothing stopping him from having everything he wanted.

Nothing at all.

He heard his chair scrape on the floor before he realised he was standing. Jacob paused, lounging in his chair with a glass of wine halfway to his mouth, and a moment later a look of brilliant, cautious hope broke out on his face.

Ned's heart was sprinting. His hands shook a little. His breath was shaky, but his eyes were fixed on Jacob and he took one step, to the corner of the table, then another, to the front of Jacob's chair. His trouser leg brushed the inside of Jacob's knee and Jacob sucked in a sharp breath.

The sound made Ned smile, pleased, more than pleased – _he_ did that. Jacob was looking up at him with awe and hunger, and not a little impatience.

He could have _everything_ he wanted.

Ned leaned in and kissed him.

It was _fire_ , a jolt that shot through him from lips to toes, and in an instant Jacob's arms slid round him, warm on his shoulders as he surged up to meet the kiss. Ned slid his fingers through Jacob's beard, along his jaw, into his hair, holding him close and tasting his lips, forgetting to breathe and not caring a whit.

Jacob moved under him, shifting in his seat, already half out of his chair, and tugged – an invitation, and Ned took it, stepping as close as possible, pressing them together hip to shoulder, holding on tight, tracing his fingertips round the back of Jacob's neck all the while kissing him dizzy.

Finally they broke for breath, and Ned held on, barely letting an inch of air come between them. Jacob's arms were wrapped round him, warm and welcoming and a huge grin on his face. "Why, Mr Wynert," he said with mock affront, "that was _very_ forward of you."

Ned's cheeks felt ready to split his face. "Well, what can I say? I know what I want," he replied, toying with Jacob's ear. "And you loved it."

"Bloody right I did," Jacob murmured, and then words were lost in another kiss, and maybe Ned started it, maybe Jacob did, but he didn't _care_. He let his hands roam down Jacob's chest and over his shoulders, tracing circles where his tattoos were hidden, just marvelling that he _could_. He wanted to to touch him – so he did. He wanted to muss Jacob's hair – so he did. He wanted to kiss him – so he did. Again.

And again.

And again.

And again and again and again and again and _again_.

They never did finish dinner.

Jacob and Ned strode through the double doors of St. Bart's the next morning, walking towards the stairs in matched steps, smiling and relaxed and happy. They chatted idly as they made their way up, innocent topics of business and mutual friends, and if they walked just close enough that their hands brushed as they walked, if every time their eyes met they shared a secret smile and at least one of them got red in the cheek – well, no one noticed.

They spent hours with Clara that day, playing with the charcoal and drawing-paper Rose had brought for her. Ned took time and care and put years of a young lady's education to good use, and finished one detailed, mostly lifelike portrait of Jacob and Clara sitting together, heads bent conspiratorially and grinning. Jacob made half a dozen rough sketches, finished none of them, then swapped to scenes of stick figures of them jousting with cane-swords, hammering fixes on buildings, and conquering the world.

Clara refused to show her sketches and crumpled up her discards, but as they were readying to leave she was persuaded to share the only drawing she was satisfied with: The three of them, sitting together round the hospital bed, smiling.

Jacob had it framed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there now! Just one chapter left. As I posted chapter one on 24 December last year, I'm aiming to have it out on or before that day – it's much shorter than a normal chapter, so I should be able to make it.
> 
> (You want to guess what took the longest to write in this chapter? It was the kissing scene. Not the dinner or the nerves, the yay-it's-all-good-now kissing scene. idk!)
> 
> Originally this coming-out / getting-together bit wasn't going to be the finale of the story; it was going to be nearer the middle, and then we'd spend some time with Ned and Jacob being together and figuring things out along the way, with the end being when they realise they've gone from "I'm interested let's try this" to realising they're definitely in love. I didn't want Ned being trans to be a focal point of the story, or to make this Gender 101. I hope I've managed to balance it so that it's clear that Ned's fears and trust are the final obstacle, not his gender identity.
> 
> I thought a lot about just how open-minded Jacob would be here, but historically the Assassins seem to be a pretty open-minded bunch in general, and for Jacob in particular, not only his personality but growing up fancying other men in a tiny town where he had no hope of being himself openly.
> 
> Last, I couldn't find a way to work in this tidbit without forcing it, but Rose is aromantic as well as lesbian. Or, as my friend put it, "The gay best friend to the gay best friends".


	8. Epilogue: A Bit of Sparkle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID IT, I made my deadline - one year after posting the first chapter, this fic is _complete_!
> 
> Also, I think I might have to change the tag from "Fluff" to "Tooth-rotting fluff". Tell me what you think. ;)

_Dear Jacob,_

_Happy birthday! I'm certain this will reach you in time, if not early, but if by some misfortune it is late, I am terribly sorry._

_How are you, little brother? All your recent letters have been jovial, but I cannot put a finger on exactly what, in all that you talk about, has made you so happy – not just carefree, but content. In any case, it is good to hear, and I am happy for you._

_I must confess I was stunned to receive your parcel; had you not specified the date, I would have assumed it was meant to arrive for our last birthday rather than this one. Forgive me for asking, but am I wrong to suspect the influence of your good friend Ned in thinking to send it so far in advance? In any case, I am certain the choice of gift was yours alone and, all teasing aside, I want to thank you, sincerely and with deepest affection, for sending me this taste of home. I have hung it above my desk in such a way that I can pretend it is a window overlooking St. Paul's. Please compliment the painter for me; they have a striking talent for detail._

_India remains both hot and beautiful, and Henry is very happy to be with his family; thank you for asking after him. I have finally conquered the obstacle course the Indian mentors challenged me with, at the hottest time of day no less, so I will finally be considered for major local assignments among the British population. Once I master the language, I shall be able to take assignments anywhere._

_How is Clara? In her most recent letter she claimed she would be climbing and running again by now, but avoided specifying when her casts were to come off. Nonetheless, she seems happy, and I agree it was an excellent idea to teach her the use and care of ranged weapons once she had exhausted our library – she wrote nearly four paragraphs on the bottle-shooting competition you set up for her, and valiantly tried not to hint that she would like to do so again._

_Your hints in your last letter were not quite as subtle as I think you intended, so I shall answer directly: If she has truly learned patience during her recovery, and if she is ready to commit to our creed beyond protecting only the children of London, I think she would be an excellent initiate, and I think you would be a good mentor for her. Do speak with George though; he has the rest of Father's books on the history of the Brotherhood, and I suspect Clara will find them interesting._

_I would ask how London fares, but you have covered that most extensively already. I can scarcely imagine walking the central boroughs without spotting a single Blighter, but if they are truly too frightened to walk in Rook territory anymore, then it is all the better for keeping London safe._

_As to the matter of influencing politics for women's rights, I'm honoured that you asked, and pleased that you were more aware than I realised of how tiresome and infuriating I find it every day, even flouting customs as I do. I have been giving it a great deal of thought and have several strategies you might consider. Property rights are, I think, the best place to start..._

Jacob's second birthday in London without his sister was, at a glance, very much like the last one: the same pub, the same rowdy crowd, and no sign of genteel dignity anywhere. The Horse & Groom had never quite recovered from last year, and as the pack of green jackets thickened, the usual patrons quietly fled, leaving the barman to sigh and tuck his most fragile glasses behind the bar.

By the time Ned arrived with Clara, the noise was already near to deafening, and most of it was Agnes, already sozzled, handily beating Rook after Rook at arm-wrestling and bellowing her victory after every round. Jacob had decided not to challenge her – no point spoiling her fun – so he was near the back of the cheering crowd and only two pints into his night when he spied his last and favourite guests at the door.

Clara was pale and sweaty, gripping Ned's arm tightly enough to hurt as she stubbornly walked, one wobbly step at a time, into the pub. Her legs were still stick thin and weak from months of disuse, but she was following all Miss Nightingale's instructions on strengthening and resting them with rigid, furious determination, and no one was about to argue that the short walk from train to carriage and carriage to pub might be too much for her. She seemed to be managing, but Jacob was entirely prepared to tie her to a chair all night if need be.

So he waved them over to a booth that was as close to the door as possible, one he'd kept as his own since Freddy came by for a discreet drink at the very start of the evening. Clara's eyes narrowed at the obvious special treatment, but she didn't try to refuse, perhaps because she nearly fell onto the seat when they reached it. Ned made a point of turning to greet several Rooks he knew, taking his time so could Clara drag herself upright on the bench before taking the seat opposite.

Jacob slid in beside Ned and said, "Either I'm already drunk, or you're nearly as tall as Wynert here now. Not that that means much," he added, winking, and Ned affected a long-suffering sigh that was completely undermined by his smile.

"Enough that you'll be letting out your hem again soon, I'd say. Is there any left?" Ned asked. Clara grimaced.

"Very little. But I _don't_ want more new clothes, Mr Frye; as you can see, they are wasted on someone my age. As it is, I must insist that anything I can no longer fit into be given to less fortunate children to keep them warm this winter."

"Yes, yes, all right," said Jacob. He tried very hard to sound neutral, or even irritated, but probably failed. "And I agree, you don't need new things." He waited a beat, then added, "Some of Evie's old ones will fit you soon enough."

Her whole face lit up, and she didn't quite manage to smother it under a polite expression, nor keep from touching the braids on side of her head, which now wrapped around her head to the nape of her neck; they were still a little too short to tie into a knot like Evie did, but Jacob had no doubt that would be next. "But didn't she take all her things to India?" Clara asked cautiously.

"Everything she had in London, yes, but our father's friend finally packed and sent along the things we left in Crawley." Jacob took a slug of ale. "I'll be picking it up later this week. I should send some of it to her, I suppose," he said.

"Did she receive the painting?" asked Ned, and Jacob nodded.

Across the room, a crash topped the table and Agnes leapt to her feet, roaring, and the crowd of Rooks jumped as a dozen pints of ale spilled onto the floor. Jacob watched for a moment to make sure no one was getting trampled, then flinched as his hat was swiped off his head.

He whirled round incredulously to Ned, who was casually flipping it over in his fingers. "This looks rather worse for wear. Isn't it your favourite?"

Jacob reached for it but Ned was quicker, and Jacob had to settle for watching the poor battered silk be twirled out of his reach, rips and stains and bullet hole and all. "Best hat I've ever had," he said mournfully. "Fits _perfectly_ , never slips when I'm running. Some bobby shot it off me and into the Thames last week. I'll never find another like it."

"Tragic," Ned said, laughter behind his eyes. "And with only the one spare left, how _ever_ will you manage?" He grinned and, with a spin of fingers, swapped his own hat for Jacob's, making a great show of adjusting the tilt of it, and that _bastard_ , he knew exactly what the sight of him wearing that did to Jacob. His breath caught and– no no _no_ , not in public. " _Tease_ ," he hissed, too soft for Clara to hear across the table. Ned laughed and took it off.

Clara had an odd look on her face, and for a moment Jacob wondered if she had figured them out – she'd certainly seen how often Ned came by the train nowadays – but no, the look on her face was smug, and as he watched she swapped a conspiratorial glance with Ned. Jacob narrowed his eyes at them both. "Out with it," he said. "What are you two plotting?"

They shared a grin, but Ned shrugged casually and sat back in his seat. "Oh, nothing, just a new acquisition for our company. Clara and I got the final signatures sorted yesterday." He took a folded paper from his breast pocket and toyed with it. "Just business, you know."

Jacob watched the paper dancing between Ned's fingers and wondered if he could snatch it without spilling his drink. "Of course. No reason to mention it at a party at all."

Clara was grinning broadly now, and Ned's eyes were sparkling, but they were clearly out to torture him, so to save the poor innocent tankard of ale Jacob sighed and surrendered. "What acquisition might this be?"

"Oh... just a millinery," said Ned. "Best hat makers this side of the Thames. And what with owning it, well..."

"Once they've got your measurements," Clara chimed in, "they'll be able to make you a dozen hats that fit perfectly."

Delight stole Jacob's voice for a moment, and he blinked as Ned handed him the unfolded contract. His mouth was open – he closed it, then went to speak again, and laughed. "You two are the _best_!" he exclaimed.

He reached out to catch Ned in a one-armed hug, then stretched over the table to Clara – couldn't quite reach, but she offered him a very happy handshake, and as he sat down again, he beamed at the paper. A thought struck. "Why stop there?" he said. "Now Wynert here can finally get something more interesting to wear too," he said, stealing Ned's hat, and ah, sweet vengeance (but he didn't put it on. They'd tried that. He looked ridiculous). "What do you think, Clara, something with feathers?"

She laughed. "It would suit him," she replied. Ned narrowed his eyes.

"It would better suit _you_ , young lady," he replied. Clara's face dropped in horror, and Jacob decided then and there to commission them both the most awful, gaudy hats he could imagine for their next birthdays.

Best not to tip his hand though, so Jacob chuckled at them and slid out of the booth, hefting his empty tankard. "Fancy a drink?"

Clara set her jaw and began to shuffle to the edge, but Jacob jabbed a finger at her. "No."

"I can get my own drink," she replied, trying and failing to sound both firm and innocent. "It will be good exercise."

"No."

She scowled but didn't argue, and Jacob suspected it had been more for show than sincerity anyway. "Ned?"

"Yes, thanks."

Jacob was waylaid twice on his way to the bar, and again on the way back, by well-wishers and drink invites and friends wanting to chat, so once he had delivered their drinks Jacob backed away from what sounded like a heating debate about the purpose of fiction to enjoy the rest of his party. He drank enough to stumble and still won two games of whist, but lost the next three to, of all people, _Nigel_ , who was so thrilled by it Jacob couldn't bring himself to be upset. Maggie cornered him with a sudden idea she'd had for a new pub game, and later on held a test match in the street which, to the relief of the barman, drew half the crowd along.

It was about then, somewhere round eleven, that Clara started to nod off and Ned offered to take her to the train on his way home. "See you tomorrow," he shouted to Jacob over the crowd and the cheers of the game, and Jacob waved back, though he frowned as Clara stumbled and looked back to Ned, who caught his eye and shook his head – no need for help, he had it in hand.

Jacob kept an eye on them till they were in a carriage, then turned back to the deafening chaos of his favourite night of the year.

It was well after midnight when Jacob came home to his train, helping Agnes along as she stumbled and mumbled bits of a song that had been shaking the pub earlier. Jacob wasn't exactly sober himself, but he could still unlock the carriage door with only a little fumbling. Getting Agnes inside before the train started moving again, and then into her sleeping compartment was harder, and by the time she was face-down on her pillow he had stumbled over or knocked into enough walls to wake anybody nearby, which just now was only Clara.

Jacob rubbed his face hard and shut Agnes's door – bit too loudly, oops – and concentrated on tip-toeing down the narrow corridor. He carefully turned the handle of Clara's door and peeked inside.

She was fast asleep, slumped on her side with her head pillowed on one arm, peaceful and still as she never was when awake. The lamp was still burning bright and a book had slipped off the edge of the bed, and her blanket was tangled round her waist. If not for that he'd have left it be, but this was November, and the windows were often iced over by dawn.

So Jacob slipped inside, careful not to step on the book that was taking up almost half the tiny floor space, and carefully freed the blanket. He tucked it round her shoulders – freezing in place for a moment when she murmured in her sleep – then reached up to turn down the light. He paused, looking at her, and smiled fondly.

The door closed without a sound.

The gangway between this carriage and his own was one of the easier ones to jump, but Jacob's head was a little fragile, and he winced when he stepped out into the buffeting wind. It took him a moment to lock the door behind him (the sleeping compartments had no such protection), and another steady himself for the jump, but the door to his carriage, at least, opened easily.

The lamps were off but the fire was flickering merrily, and the glow filled the room. Jacob shut the locks behind him and stepped round the doorway, and there was Ned, settled comfortably in the armchair, socked feet stretched out towards the flames, book in hand and sleeves neatly folded above his elbows, firelight dancing on his skin. He looked so bloody handsome that Jacob paused in his step just to admire the view.

Ned heard him, of course, looked up and smiled, and tucked a finger between the pages. "How was the rest of the party?" he asked.

The party, right. Jacob shook his head and walked to the fire. "Eh, good. Davey started a brawl and broke a table. I might owe Maggie twenty bob for that." He peeled off his overcoat and dropped heavily onto the edge of his bed. "And Agnes was singing. All night. Taught everyone something filthy from Garnkirk – I don't even know what most of it meant." He tossed his gauntlets towards the desk and started on his boots, ignoring the fuzziness in his head. "How was Clara? She left her light on again."

"I'm not surprised, she wore herself out," said Ned. He put his book down and stretched his arms. "She admitted her legs hurt, and promised she won't go out tomorrow if they don't feel better. She insists they will, of course."

Jacob sighed. He was starting (grudgingly, and with no shortage of resentment) to see why Father had been so frustrated with him all the time – not that that changed anything. But it was worth it, for Clara.

Ned yawned as Jacob finished unbuckling his belts. "Did anyone wonder why you left so early? By which I mean, before dawn."

Jacob rolled his eyes. "Well they didn't until I said, 'Sorry lads, I'm off to have a shag with the handsomest American in London'."

All that earned him was a sceptical raised eyebrow. "You sound awfully sure of that. Maybe I just want to sleep here tonight."

"Your bed is bigger." He wound up the belts and tossed them at the desk chair. "And softer. Where _do_ you get sheets that nice?"

"Very expensive shops." He was looking back at his book now, half distracted by whatever was on the pages, and Jacob frowned at it.

He tugged pointedly on his still-buttoned waistcoat. "You could help me," he said, trying to be subtle in his wheedling. "You love undressing me."

"I love you _undressed_ ," Ned replied. "There's a difference." But he was smiling at his book and dammit, Jacob had fallen right into that trap.

"Tease," he muttered sulkily. Ned chuckled.

He got up to stand just between Jacob's knees and tugged on his lapels, stealing a kiss before dancing his fingers over the buttons, sliding and pushing them open with lightning fingers. "There," he said, skimming his fingers across the fabric; it tickled Jacob's belly and he sucked in a sharp breath. "How's that?"

His insides were tightening, tingling, and he realised his eyes were closed. He peeled them open to look up at Ned, beautiful in the dim light, and breathed out slowly. "It's a start," he said as nonchalantly as possible. "But it's still on me."

Ned kissed his nose. "You're completely incompetent, then?"

"Hopeless." He slid his arms around Ned's waist, round to his back and tugged him closer, till his nose was nearly brushing Ned's collarbone. "Can you help?"

Ned slipped his hands under the shoulders of his waistcoat. "You'll owe me a favour," he warned, pushing it down his arms. It caught at his elbows, and Jacob had to twist his arms behind him to get it off.

"Then I am in your debt, Mr Wynert, as always," he murmured. "What would you have in return?"

He leaned into Ned's neck, breathing in the scent of him before brushing his nose against skin, making Ned's breath catch, and kissed a wet line down the side to his collar. Ned groaned and held him there, fingers buried in his hair.

Jacob grinned, pleased with himself, and nipped at Ned's jaw. "Well? What do you want of me?"

Ned let out his breath, then slid his hands down to the sides of Jacob's face and kissed him. "Everything."

He pulled back and, smiling, pressed two fingers lightly into Jacob's chest. Obligingly, Jacob let himself fall backwards, landing flat on his back on the bed. Ned climbed on, over him, and claimed a long kiss, pressing Jacob into the mattress and pushing the suspenders off his shoulders. Jacob let his hands wander down Ned's back, pulling up his shirt till he could run his fingertips across the warm strip of skin at the edge of his trousers. He kissed back hard, his world narrowing to that one touch, one taste; he could feel Ned's lips curl into a smile. He held on tight, fast losing track of whose hands were where in the dizzying whirl of touch and heat and _Ned_... and then Ned pulled away, and he moaned a wordless complaint.

Learning over him, Ned smiled and traced a finger over the peeking edge of Jacob's tattoos. "I forgot something," he said idly.

 _Tease_. Jacob scrunched his face and tried to focus on the worse. "Forgot? What?"

Ned bent down and stole another kiss, then grinned at him. "Happy birthday."

Jacob had to laugh. "That it _is_."

_Dear Evie,_

_Sweet sister, are you suggesting that I, your dear and devoted brother, could ever have been so thoughtless as to forget to send a gift on time without help? I'm wounded, deeply wounded. Ned would like me to tell you that all he did was mention the time it takes for parcels to arrive and that the rest was my idea. He also sends his greetings and best wishes for your birthday. And to ~~Greenie~~ Mr Green._

_(He is also a nag.)_

_Clara is doing well. Last night she walked several stretches of a dozen steps at a time, with long rests in between, and is making good progress, but she won't be running or climbing for some time yet. I haven't decided whether to tell her about the Brotherhood or not, as once she knows I'm sure she'll insist on joining. I think she would do well, as she's learned a lot about the wider suffering in London during the last few her months, but I can't say if she's ready yet, or if I'm ready to be her teacher. I'll think on it and consider it again once she is fully recovered._

_Thank you for your very detailed list of ideas and strategies for handling politicians; I agree that, unfortunately, my most fun suggestions probably wouldn't be very effective in the long run, and yours are much more likely to work. I've shown them to Ned and he's very excited and says that you are, in the best ways, very sneaky and clever._

_(It may be I wasn't supposed to write that part.)_

_I'm afraid I have no time to reply to each of them in detail at the moment as Clara and breakfast are waiting, but I'll write again in a few days._

_Your loving brother,  
Jacob_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for Clara becoming an initiate assassin comes from this [a deleted line of dialouge from the JTR DLC](https://allsoundsasscreed.tumblr.com/post/139277796782/those-are-the-young-initiates-jacob-brought-to): Evie says, _"Those are the young initiates Jacob brought to train with the Brotherhood. Tim, Clara, and… What did we call him? 'Jack the lad'."_ , and while Jack will never ruin my little 'verse, I thought it a great idea for Clara.
> 
> I'm unsure about having Jacob go on a crusade for women's rights here; it's something he'd have cared about before, so having the motivation for it now being that Ned would lose his business and properties if 'found out' seems... weak. And, historically, he's not going to have much luck. But I liked the idea of Jacob and Ned sitting up in bed reading Evie's letter and getting fired up about how to shake up the patriarchy so... *shrug* I may go back and edit that bit later. 
> 
> ANYWAY. 
> 
> A _very_ heartfelt THANK YOU to everyone who commented along the way; your comments _literally_ kept me writing when I was spiralling into self-doubt and ready to give up, and others have helped shape the story too – the father-daughter dynamic between Jacob and Clara was originally going to be just a hint, joked at, and the Ned-Clara relationship wasn't going to be in there at all, but you made me think about it, sparked more ideas, and here we are.
> 
> I'm going to be taking a little break from writing just now (I'm playing Valhalla, and want to replay Syndicate all the way through after), but I have more ideas for Ned and Jacob (and Clara and Evie), so **if you'd like to read more eventually please[subscribe to the series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831084) to get updates**. I'm going to _try_ to only start posting once a fic is more or less complete (or is a one-shot) to avoid long delays, but we'll see.
> 
> Happy holidays!


End file.
